The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  She pushed the unpleasant thoughts from her mind. George had paid his debt to society. He had a clean slate. They had built themselves a new life of sorts. After twenty years, maybe it was time to let go of the past.

  ‘Oh, Elaine, I hate Fridays, don’t you?’

  Margaret Forrester sat down at Elaine’s table and slipped off her shoes.

  ‘My feet will end up in the Guinness Book Of Records one of these days. The most swollen feet in the world.’

  Elaine laughed at her friend.

  ‘Why do you insist on wearing those heels? Get yourself a pair of comfortable flats.’

  ‘No. My legs are me only vanity. I won’t let them go till I have to.’

  Elaine shook her head. ‘Shall I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, Elaine. And a bowl of cold water if they’ve got one.’

  Elaine got her friend a coffee and they sat together chatting.

  ‘So where you off to on holiday then?’

  Elaine shrugged.

  ‘Probably Bournemouth again.’

  ‘Oh, sod off, Elaine. No one goes to Bournemouth these days unless they go in a wheelchair. Why don’t you come to Spain with me and the girls? Sun, sand, sea, sex . . .’

  Margaret did a little dance in her chair.

  ‘I can’t wait to get there! Last year we was in this hotel, right on the seafront, and next door was only a bloody parrot sanctuary. All bloody night the sodding things screeched. And you know Caroline from frozen foods? She threw all our shoes at them one night. Pissed out of our heads we was. We had to go and ask for them back the next day. It was a scream!’

  Elaine smiled.

  ‘I don’t know, Margaret. George . . .’

  ‘Oh, balls to George! It’s only a hundred and twenty quid for the fortnight, full board. I know it’s in March and it’s not that hot. But, oh dear me, do we have a good time! Please come.’

  For the first time in her life Elaine felt a surge of pleasure in doing the unexpected. George was quite capable of looking after himself.

  Margaret put her hand on Elaine’s arm.

  ‘Come on, girl. Let your hair down before it’s too late.’

  Elaine ran her tongue slowly over her teeth, then bit her lip. Margaret could see the indecision on her friend’s face.

  ‘All right then . . . I’ll go!’

  Elaine began to laugh in excitement.

  ‘We’ll go and book it after work. That way you can’t change your mind.’

  ‘George will have a fit when I tell him.’

  ‘Let him! My old man did the first time, but as I said to him: “You only live once”.’

  ‘That’s the truth.’

  Elaine bit her lip again. This time in excitement. Two whole weeks without George! Bliss . . .

  Elaine heard the front door shut and squared her shoulders as if waiting to begin a fight. But George wouldn’t fight. George never fought about anything.

  He would give her his wounded soldier look, his baffled schoolboy look, or his ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ look. She carried on mashing the potatoes. George entered the kitchen. Summoning every resource she had, Elaine put a smile on her face and looked at her husband.

  ‘Hello, George. Sit yourself down, the meal’s nearly ready.’

  She saw George’s right eyebrow rise and forced herself to carry on mashing.

  He sat in his usual seat at the table. The white Formica table that they had bought from MFI aeons ago. When white Formica tables had been important to them.

  ‘Have a good day?’ She was determined to be friendly.

  Oh yes, Elaine, George thought, I had a great day. I was called into Mrs Denham’s office and all but kicked out of the firm on my arse. He put the back of his hand over his mouth. He must stop swearing to himself. One day he would forget and swear at Elaine.

  ‘Not bad, love. You?’ His voice was low and flat.

  She put the mashed potato on the plates next to the pork chops. George watched her as she patted it into shape with her fingers. Then she began to ladle out the peas.

  ‘I had quite a good day actually, George.’

  He allowed himself another lift of the eyebrow. Well, well, well. That was a turn up for the book. Elaine enjoying herself at work . . . If she was to be believed, she ran the whole store single-handed from her till.

  ‘That’s good, dear.’

  Elaine was pouring the gravy and had to stifle an urge to pour it over George’s bald head.

  ‘That’s nice, dear. That’s good, dear. Hell’s bells, George! I’m your wife. You don’t have to be polite to your own wife.’

  George could see the confusion in her face as she looked at him. Elaine was such a difficult woman. He could just imagine the reaction if he told her that she bored the arse off him. That her voice went through his head like a marauding migraine. That he wished she were dead so he could claim the insurance money.

  Elaine put his dinner in front of him.

  She was still talking, but George was on the special auto pilot he reserved for Elaine’s chatter about work.

  ‘Anyway, when they asked me . . . I mean, one of the girls had dropped out you see . . . I thought: Why not? I’d love to go to Spain.’

  George was in the process of eating a piece of tough pork chop when he realised what she was saying.

  ‘Spain? Did you say Spain?’ Elaine heard the incredulity in his voice and it annoyed her. What did he think then? That she was not the Spain sort?

  ‘Yes, I said Spain, George. You know, where the Spanish people live.’

  ‘And you’re going? You . . . to Spain?’

  Elaine put down her knife and fork, balancing them on the side of her plate.

  ‘Just what’s that supposed to mean?’

  George opened his mouth to answer but Elaine was in full flood by then.

  ‘I suppose you think of Spain as full of page three girls and blond Adonises? Well, let me tell you, George, the girls at work have a bloody good time there, mate. A bloody good time. And just for once in my life -’ she poked herself in the chest with her thumb - ‘I am going to join in with the real world. I am going to have fun. Have a laugh. I’m not too old to enjoy myself.

  ‘Let’s face it, if I waited for you to show me a good time, I’d be six feet under.’

  George watched her face as she spoke. Her features were bunched like a screwed-up handkerchief and for one dreadful moment he imagined her topless on the beach.

  Then he started to laugh. He laughed until the tears ran from his eyes and he had an attack of coughing. He laughed while Elaine slapped him on the back to stop him choking. Finally he was too weak to laugh any more and slowly his breathing returned to normal.

  She was staring down at him, bewildered.

  ‘I am sorry, Elaine. Sorry for laughing. It’s just that you gave me a shock. I mean, you’ve never wanted to go before, have you? And now out of the blue . . . You go, Elaine. You go and enjoy yourself. I can just see you with a lovely tan. It will do you the world of good.’

  She was nonplussed. She had a sneaking feeling that George was taking the piss.

  He read her mind and spoke again.

  ‘I laughed because after all these years you can still surprise me.’

  Elaine relaxed.

  ‘Shall I open a bottle of wine, dear? To celebrate?’

  ‘Yes, George. Do that. You do that.’

  She sat back at the table and resumed her meal. She was too hard on George, that was the trouble. He was pleased that she was going off to enjoy herself. He didn’t begrudge her a little time away from him. She made up her mind to be more friendly, try and understand him a bit better. A short while later they clinked glasses.

  ‘To Spain, my dear.’

  ‘To Spain.’

  They finished their meal in peace, and George left Elaine finishing the bottle of wine while he went for a walk.

  George walked the streets for twenty minutes, his hands deep in his pockets and his hea
d burrowed into the neck of his overcoat. He liked the winter months, liked the anonymity the dark nights created. He made his way to Motherwell Street and walked slowly along the lines of houses.

  How the hell was he going to break the news to Elaine about his redundancy? From what he could gather from Renshaw, he would be out on his ear in February. He shuddered. He had calmed her tonight but that wouldn’t last long. He closed his eyes briefly, pondering his problem. His redundancy would only make her more convinced that he was an all round loser.

  Geraldine O’Leary smiled at herself in her mirror. Still not satisfied with her make-up, she applied more fuchsia pink lipstick. Opening her mouth wide, she spread it liberally then rubbed her lips together. She smiled at herself again, satisfied. Picking up her hairbrush, she began to pull it through her long brown hair, the electricity crackling as she did so.

  Mick O’Leary watched his wife from the bed. Even after twelve years she could still excite him. At thirty-four she was the mother of his three children and did not look much older than the day he’d married her. He gazed at her as she slipped on her bra and pants. Their eyes met and they smiled, an intimate smile.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go tonight, Gerry.’

  ‘I don’t want to go, Mick. But if I stay home I’ll regret it next week, you know that. Fifteen quid is fifteen quid. And Christmas will be here soon . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  Mick sighed. Getting off the bed, he pulled on his trousers.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. You’re not wearing that blouse, are you?’

  Geraldine looked down at the blouse she was buttoning up. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘You can see your bra through it.’

  ‘Oh, Mick! You’re crazy . . .’

  ‘Well, I don’t like the thought of men looking at my wife.’

  ‘Women come in the wine bar as well, you know.’ She pursed her lips at him and he laughed.

  ‘Not as good-looking as you though, girl.’

  Geraldine smiled and slipped on a black skirt. Then she stepped into her high-heeled shoes and sprayed herself liberally with perfume.

  Checking her make-up one last time, she left the bedroom with her husband and they went downstairs.

  Sophie, Donald and Grania, aged three, five and ten respectively, looked up as they came into the lounge.

  ‘See you all later, and be good for Daddy.’

  Sophie, in pink pyjamas, put out her arms for a cuddle and Geraldine picked her up, smelling the babyness of her and cuddling the little girl to her chest.

  ‘You be good, madam.’ She looked over at her husband who had sat down and picked up the TV section of the paper.

  ‘Don’t let her play you up. Eight o’clock is bedtime for the three of you.’

  Grania and Donald groaned.

  ‘I mean it. Or no sweets tomorrow.’

  She placed Sophie on the couch with her brother and sister and pulled on her coat. As she buttoned it up she gave her orders.

  ‘There’s some chicken left in the fridge, Mick, if you fancy a sandwich, and I got you in some beers. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve left my Avon order by the phone. The girl will be calling around tonight.’

  ‘You just get yourself off, Gerry. I’ll sort out this end. See you later, love.’

  She kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘Be careful, Gerry, and don’t take any lip. Right?’

  Geraldine looked down at her husband’s face and grinned. ‘Right. ’Bye, kids.’

  She kissed them all in turn and went from the house. The cold wind hit her in the face as she shut her front door and began walking the half mile to the wine bar where she worked. As she walked, she made Christmas lists in her head. She had already got most of the stuff for the two eldest. Grania had a bike which was at this minute hidden in her mother-in-law’s shed and Donald had an Atari game. She was deliberating whether to get Sophie a kiddies’ kitchen set or a doll’s pram when she turned into Vauxhall Drive.

  She instinctively pulled her coat tighter around her. She hated this bit. The road was wide and pitted, banked on the left-hand side by woods. She had played in the woods many times as a child and knew every inch of them. Yet still they gave her the creeps. It was so dark, and only a couple of the houses were now lived in. The others had been demolished to make way for a new development that had never been built. Many years ago this had been the ‘good’ end of town. Now it flanked the woods on one side and the council estate on the other and the large Victorian dwellings were gradually being razed to the ground.

  Her heels clattered on the uneven pavement as she walked and the sound comforted her. She could see the end of the road ahead and relaxed.

  Silly cow! she chided herself. Frightened of shadows!

  She began to walk faster, the lights at the end of the road like beacons drawing her towards them.

  George had been standing in the entrance of the woods for about fifteen minutes. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. Here she came. Right on time. It was a quarter past seven.

  He swallowed and flexed fingers that were now encased in white cotton gloves.

  As Geraldine passed him he stepped out from his hiding place and grabbed her hair. The long brown hair that was her best feature.

  As she opened her mouth to scream, George grabbed her under the jaw and began dragging her into the woods. As she kicked out to free herself she lost one of her shoes. She was terrified.

  George was puffing and panting; she was bigger than he’d thought. He dragged her along with difficulty, her muffled cries annoying him. He still had a good hold on her hair and jaw. Pulling her sideways with all his strength, he threw her down.

  Geraldine hit the ground with such force it winded her. She lay in the dirt, stunned for a moment. But only a moment. George saw her pull herself to her hands and knees, and as she tried to rise he kicked her as hard as he could in the stomach, sending her reeling back on to the ground.

  Geraldine was holding her stomach with both hands when she saw the man kneeling beside her. Gathering up every ounce of strength she had left she rolled away from him, trying to get to her feet.

  George watched the woman rolling away again and tutted. She was getting on his nerves now. Picking up a piece of wood which lay close to hand he brought it back over his head and slammed it down on her skull. He watched her crumple and sighed with relief. He sat quietly beside her for a few moments until he got his breath back and his heart stopped hammering in his ears. Then, pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped his forehead clean of sweat.

  Happier now, he looked at the woman. She was lying on her back with her head turned away from him and he smiled to himself. Good! He didn’t want her watching him. Going to her, he began to unbutton her coat. George decided he liked her coat and opened it up gently. Then, humming to himself, he began to pull off her skirt. No tights on, and in this weather as well! He tutted to himself again. Her limbs felt heavy as he undid her blouse and laid it back neatly with her coat. Still humming, he looked down at her bra. In the dimness he could just make out a piece of plastic. He fiddled about with it for a second and then her breasts seemed to burst out of it into his hands. She had been wearing a front fastening bra - she must have known what was going to happen! George caressed her breasts. He was feeling a deep tenderness towards the woman now. Then he used the knife to cut off her panties.

  While he carried out his ministrations he felt the excitement building up within him. And such was his feeling of ecstatic happiness as he pulled her legs open, he had to stifle the cry that had gathered in his throat.

  This was what she wanted. This was what they all wanted.

  It was when George lay across her, spent and replete, that he found out why she had not moved at all during his little ‘game’.

  The lump of wood, so convenient, had contained a six-inch nail. It had been forced through her skull and into her brain.

  George looked at her and tutted once more.

  It was her
own fault. All her own fault. Women always caused trouble. They were just so bloody stupid . . . Stupid fucking bitches! Bringing his fist back he smashed it into her face as hard as he could.

  Mick O’Leary looked at the policewoman’s face in disbelief. He had been up all night and thought that maybe his mind was playing tricks on him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  The WPC had never felt so bad in all her life. She saw the three children huddled together on the settee. Their father’s fear had communicated itself to them. She could have cried herself.

  ‘Your wife was found an hour ago, Mr O’Leary. She’s been murdered.’

  The WPC watched the man’s face crumple before her eyes, and put her arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Not my Gerry . . . Not my lovely Gerry. Please tell me that it’s not true? Please?’

  Mick O’Leary’s voice broke as he spoke the last word and he put his hands to his face, the tears bursting through his fingers like a dam.

  ‘Dad! Don’t cry, Daddy!’

  Ten-year-old Grania pulled her younger brother and sister into her arms. She had never seen her daddy cry before.

  ‘I want my mum. When’s my mummy coming home?’

  At the same moment as Mick O’Leary was being told that his world had been ripped apart, George Markham was cooking his wife a nice breakfast.

  Elaine walked into the kitchen, the smell of eggs and bacon making her mouth water.

  ‘Oh, George, I would have done that.’

  He actually laughed.

  ‘I wanted to do it for you, my love. I do love you, you know, Elaine.’

  ‘Do you, George?’

  For some unknown reason his saying that he loved her depressed her more than anything else he could have done.

  George held out her chair for her and she sat down at the table.

  ‘Eat that up, my dear.’

  Elaine stared at the eggs, bacon and tomatoes, and her appetite came back.

  George watched her eat.

  That’s why you’re so fat, Elaine, he thought, because you’re a greedy bitch.

  ‘Now then, my dear, what’s it to be? Tea or coffee?’ His voice was as polite as ever.