Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  He didn’t normally take a drink until late in the evening. A whisky for him and brandy for Marilyn. It was their special treat, a little reward to help them unwind once Malcolm and Danny, their eight-year-old twins, were safely tucked up in bed.

  After a leisurely supper, which they ate from trays on their lap unless they had invited friends over, they would spend the rest of the evening reading, watching television or listening to music.

  Though that also depended on how much homework marking there was to be done. If there was a lot then Marilyn would help by checking spellings and grammar, leaving him to deal with the text relating to the subjects he specialized in: History, Geography and English.

  Tonight, although he had brought an armful of year eleven books home, he wouldn’t work on them until much later, and then only if there was nothing on the TV worth watching.

  Thursday was his night to put his feet up and relax, at least until eight o’ clock when Marilyn and the two boys came home from Cubs.

  He’d laughed when she’d first told him that she was going to become Cub Mistress.

  ‘What the hell for? Don’t you see enough of the boys as it is? I would have thought you’d be glad to get them out of your hair for an hour or two.’

  She’d shrugged her slim shoulders and pushed her curtain of blonde hair back from her round face, her blue eyes dancing. ‘I’ve fallen for the Scout Master,’ she told him in an exaggerated whisper.

  They’d both curled up at her joke. Henry Wood was at least fifty, and with his military bearing, pencil moustache, and clipped manner, he was more like a pocket-size Hitler than a heart-throb.

  ‘Seriously, why have you decided to become involved?’

  ‘The boys have to be there at half six, it’s a twenty minute drive, and they finish at eight. What’s the point of driving home, and then having to go back for them in an hour’s time?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’ve always left them in the past.’

  ‘True! It was all right when the Simpsons lived five minutes away, and I could pop in and have a coffee with Mary. Since they moved I either have to wait in the car, or sit at one end of the hall and read a book, so I decided that as I’m there I may as well help out.’

  ‘If that’s what you want to do, darling. Otherwise you take them, and I’ll collect them.’

  Marilyn had opted to stay and lend a hand with the Cubs.

  At first John had resented coming home to an empty house. He’d found himself wandering around aimlessly, going from one room to the next, wondering what to do. He kept looking at his watch, unable to bring himself to tackle any of the jobs that needed his attention because he knew Marilyn and the boys would be home in half an hour or so.

  But once he’d settled into the routine, he found himself looking forward to his evening alone. He even made sure he finished promptly, planning his timetable so that he was never responsible for supervising games or any other extra-curriculum activities on a Thursday.

  Two hours of doing whatever he wanted to do without anyone interrupting him, without the boys demanding he should play games with them, or Marilyn wanting him to change a light bulb, or fix a dripping tap. Two hours of utter relaxation.

  It was sheer bliss!

  He switched on the television, then walked across to the walnut-fronted drinks cabinet, selected a cut glass tumbler and picking up a bottle of Scotch unscrewed the bottle with pleasurable anticipation.

  His back was to the door, his attention focused on the deep lilting voice of Huw Edwards reading the news, so he didn’t hear the footsteps crossing the hall. Nor was he aware that the sitting room door had opened, and that someone had come into the room.

  The slim figure, anonymous in a black cagoule, the hood screening the face almost completely from view, moved swiftly across the room to where John Moorhouse stood pouring his drink.

  Without uttering a word, the figure raised an arm above John Moorhouse’s back. There was a momentary glint of steel. The bottle in John Moorhouse’s hand crashed down on to the tumbler, shattering it.

  Fumes of spilled whisky filled the air as, with a groan, John Moorhouse slid to the floor.

  The figure hovered like a black vulture over its fallen prey. Then, placing one foot on John Moorhouse’s back, the attacker grasped hold of the weapon with both hands, and withdrew it, wiping the bloodied metal tip backwards and forwards down the victim’s trouser leg to clean it.

  The dark-clad figure turned the body over, prodding at it, then listening with obvious satisfaction to the agonized gasps that signalled that John Moorhouse was still conscious.

  The last thing John Moorhouse was aware of before he lost consciousness was the ultimate humiliation of knowing that his dark-grey trousers had been unzipped, his pale-blue cotton shirt and his striped boxer shorts ripped open so that he was semi-nude.

  The dark-cloaked intruder carefully studied the result with a satisfied smile.

  It was the supreme revenge.

  There was nothing left to do. It was time to leave.

  ‘John . . . John. We’re home!’ Marilyn Moorhouse called out as she unlocked the front door and pushed it open. ‘What on earth are you doing sitting in the dark? Have you got a migraine or something?’ she called out as she switched on the hall light.

  There was no reply.

  Danny and Malcolm rushed past her. ‘Mum! Can we watch telly while we have our supper?’ they begged as they shed their anoraks and scarves, dropping them in the hallway.

  ‘No, you most certainly can’t! Pick up your coats, and hang them up properly,’ she ordered, ‘or it’s up to bed with no supper.’

  With cheeky grumbling they did as they were told.

  ‘Right, that’s better. Now, into the kitchen for a snack, and then straight up to bed.’

  ‘Can we just watch while you get our supper ready . . . please,’ they begged in chorus.

  ‘No. No, no, no!’ she told them emphatically, grabbing at Malcolm as he made a dash for the sitting room door.

  ‘But, Mum . . .’

  ‘Into the kitchen for a snack, or straight upstairs to bed,’ she said firmly.

  The next half hour was a battle of wills.

  Marilyn finally won. She tucked them both into bed, kissed them goodnight, and shut the bedroom door firmly on their overtired, whingeing voices.

  Cubs was all very well, she thought as she made her way downstairs, but late nights just didn’t seem to agree with her two. Once they were past their usual bedtime they seemed to take on a new lease of life, albeit a grouchy one.

  There was still no light showing under the sitting room door so Marilyn went straight back into the kitchen. She’d waken John with a coffee.

  First, she rinsed the cups the boys had used, and tidied around. Then she loaded their coffee, and the biscuit tin, on a tray. Balancing it on one hand she pushed open the sitting room door, and switched on the light.

  ‘Wakey-wakey! I know you’re in there skulking in the dark, pretending to be asleep so that you don’t have to help get the two little horrors off to bed,’ she said breezily.

  For a split second she stood transfixed, her eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of John sprawled in front of the drinks cabinet. Her breath caught in her throat. Her mind refused to take in the details.

  The loaded tray she was carrying tilted forward but she was powerless to do anything to save it. Even when it crashed to the ground, splattering her feet with scalding liquid as the coffee cascaded, she remained motionless in the doorway. Her heart was pounding. Her jaw sagged. A scream froze in her throat.

  What could have happened? How could he have collapsed in such an ungainly sprawl? A heart attack? Not at his age! And his clothes? Why were they in such disarray that he was lying there fully exposed?

  She shuddered convulsively as the details of the spectacle in front of her registered. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her own strident breathing unnerved her. She knew she was on the point of hysteria.

  Was he really dead?
She needed help. She chewed down on her bottom lip, unsure of what to do. She gulped in air, knowing she must on no account cry out because, if she did, she would rouse the two boys.

  She shivered uncontrollably. Thank God she had insisted on them going straight to bed! Supposing she had said they could watch telly and they’d come into the sitting room on their own! She covered her eyes with her hands. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The spasm of shivering magnified, taking hold of her entire body, paralysing her with cold, sick fear.

  She wrapped her arms round herself to try and control the shaking. She had never felt so terrified in her life.

  Who had done such a thing?

  And why?

  It was so obscene! She had never witnessed anything so monstrous in her life.

  And what did she do now? He must be dead. He wouldn’t lie there in that condition if he was still alive!

  She couldn’t leave him lying there.

  Nor could she bring herself to touch him. She was no prude, but even though they’d been married for almost ten years they’d always maintained a marked degree of respect for each other’s privacy.

  It was one of the things she found so endearing about John. He was so sensitive about her feelings, and always behaved with the utmost decorum. In fact, obsessively so!

  When they’d first started going out together she’d been amused at how reticent he was about petting.

  She had become so worried about his diffidence towards her that she’d even asked her best friend, Sandra Williams, if she thought there was anything odd about him.

  ‘What do you mean by odd?’ Sandra’s eyes had widened. ‘You don’t mean you think he’s . . . well, you know!’

  ‘I’m not sure. He seems so . . . so sort of backwards-in coming-forwards when we’re on our own.’

  Sandra had giggled. ‘Perhaps it’s you . . . Perhaps you turn him off!’

  ‘In that case then, why does he ask me out?’

  Sandra had shrugged. ‘Perhaps he likes being seen with you because you’re so petite. You make him feel big, and strong, and macho.’

  ‘He is big and strong. I’m quite sure he doesn’t need me to make him feel macho.’

  ‘Well, you’re still the exact opposite to him in looks. You’ve got long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a round baby face. He’s got short dark hair, dark eyes, and a severe, square face . . .’

  Marilyn had felt cheated. ‘Forget it,’ she’d told Sandra. ‘You haven’t a clue.’

  ‘That’s right, I haven’t. I’ve always thought that being opposites you were well suited, if you know what I mean.’

  Marilyn had sighed, her blue eyes dreamy. ‘I am crazy about him!’ she admitted. ‘I only wish he was a bit more passionate.’

  When John had asked her to marry him, Marilyn could stand the uncertainty no longer. It took a lot of courage to summon up the nerve to talk to him about what she’d come to believe was shyness on his part, but she was determined to do so. She’d been on the pill for over three months in anticipation of them making love, and she felt it was important to clear the air, and discuss the situation.

  John had been both embarrassed and evasive, but she had insisted on an answer.

  ‘I thought you’d prefer not to rush things. I thought you’d want to wait until we were married before . . . before . . . you know what I mean.’

  On their wedding night they’d both been nervous, but he had been far more apprehensive than her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid of hurting you, Marilyn,’ he whispered apologetically as he held her close.

  I’ll scream if you do,’ she teased, hoping to put him at ease.

  It had the opposite effect. His face had gone chalk-white, and his eyes had darkened with fear. ‘No! Please don’t scream, my darling. Whatever you do, don’t scream. I couldn’t bear it if that happened.’

  It had taken months to reassure him, and even longer to reach even a degree of satisfaction for either of them.

  All his fears had surfaced again when she’d been expecting the twins. He’d barely touched her after she told him she was pregnant. His excuse was always the same; he was afraid he might hurt her. Even his kisses were chaste, as if she was as brittle as glass.

  He’d refused point blank to stay with her when she went into labour.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to be there, and see you in so much pain and distress,’ he told her. ‘Please don’t make me! I’ll stay at the hospital. I’ll come and see you the moment it’s all over.’

  After the twins were born, John’s apparent lack of sex-drive hadn’t seemed to matter. Malcolm and Danny had taken up so much of her time that love-making had taken second place anyway. She’d even been glad that he wasn’t very demanding.

  So why was he lying there in that state with his clothing in such an incredibly revealing state of disarray?

  The fears she’d harboured about his sexuality surfaced anew, and even though she struggled to push them aside she couldn’t help wondering if he did enjoy a vicarious sex life that she knew nothing about. Had he been entertaining another man when something untoward, like a heart attack, had happened?

  If only she could switch off the light, go out of the room, and then come back in again and find John snoozing in his armchair asleep, just as she had expected to do.

  If only this was a delusion, or a practical joke, and everything was perfectly normal.

  Scalding hot tears slowly oozed between her lids and trickled down her cheeks. Anguished tears. She felt a sense of bewilderment. Confusion. She didn’t know what to do for the best. And John couldn’t help her.

  He would have known what to do! He always did.

  Calmly, logically, no matter what the problem was, John always coped. This time, when she most needed him, he couldn’t help!

  Hesitantly, Marilyn walked towards her husband, and then crouched down beside him. His dark eyes stared unseeingly. Nervously, she placed a hand on his neck, just below his left ear, to check if there was a pulse. She could feel nothing. There was no rise and fall of his chest. She held her fingers over his gaping mouth to verify if he really had stopped breathing. She could feel nothing. She felt for the pulse at his wrist. Again, nothing.

  She tried to gather her wits. Was it too late to try resuscitation? She wasn’t even too sure how to go about it. They’d done it at Cubs, but that was before she had started to play an active part there, and she had only a hazy recollection of what was involved.

  Perhaps if she rolled him on to his side, in the recovery position, it might help. She could remember the diagrams about that. Grabbing hold of his shoulders she began to move him.

  It was then that she saw the blood. It was underneath his body in a dark-red mass that began seeping out over the carpet. Rank, red, glutinous. Bile rose into the back of her throat, and her stomach lurched as she gagged noisily.

  For a moment she seethed with anger. Not against whoever had done this shocking thing, but against John for not being able to sort things out for her.

  She needed to hear his calm, placating voice, listen to him rationalizing about what procedures must be taken, providing a satisfactory explanation.

  Why had this terrible thing happened? To him of all people!

  Slowly, the pounding in her temples began to subside only to be replaced by the chilling realization that the murderer could still be in the house.

  She knew she must get help, but who should she call? The police?

  Why hadn’t she thought of that, she wondered guiltily. She should have phoned them the moment she’d opened the sitting room door and found John lying there in that state.

  She looked round for something to cover him over with, then hid her face with her hands and gave an anguished moan. She couldn’t do it.

  The police wouldn’t want her to touch him, she reminded herself. It was important to leave him exactly as she’d found him. Even covering him over might destroy valuable evidence.

  She shuddered at the though
t of what lay ahead once the police were notified. All the questions, the probing into their private lives, curiosity from friends and neighbours, and the shame when it was all reported in the newspapers.

  Why, oh why had such a terrible thing happened . . . to John of all people!

  FIVE

  There seemed to be speed cameras everywhere, even on the stretches of the dual carriageway between Benbury and Dutton.

  Maureen Flynn clenched the steering wheel so tightly that her neck and shoulders ached. Her urge to travel in excess of the regulation speed was so great that the calf muscles of her right leg were knotted with the strain of controlling the accelerator pedal so that she kept within the law.

  She had made the fifty-mile journey so many times in the last ten days that she knew not only every twist and bend in the road, but every bump as well.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as her headlights picked out factories and office buildings that marked the start of the industrial estate, and then a black and white road sign proclaiming she’d reached the outskirts of Dutton.

  In ten more minutes she would be home. It would take another ten to unload the car, and after that she would be able to relax in a hot bath and soak away the stress of the past few hours. After that she would have a good stiff drink to celebrate.

  She smiled to herself. That was nonsense, and she knew it. She didn’t feel in the least bit stressed. She felt exhilarated. She always did when she’d completed an undertaking to her complete satisfaction. She prided herself on her competency, on her thoroughness and attention to every aspect.

  Every detail had to be right. One missing bit of the jigsaw and she felt on edge. She would spend days researching or checking one seemingly trivial point in order to make sure that even the minutest detail was absolutely correct. Her work was always flawless, faultless and infallible.

  She was a perfectionist. That was why she had decided to go freelance. The marketing company where she’d worked, after she’d qualified in Business Studies, had grown too large and far too commercialized. They seemed more concerned in providing the results the client hoped to receive rather than ensuring the information they gave them was in-depth and completely accurate.