In Times Of Want

by Marie O'Regan

  The reality, of course, was slightly different. Her boss was fifty if he was a day, had an ever-present sweat problem, must have weighed twenty stone and didn’t stand higher than her shoulder, which made him about five feet tall. He had a permanently reddened face, and the worst comb-over Nick had ever seen. His name was Malcolm, of all things. And Hannah was disgusted by him; he was a lech. Worse, an unfulfilled lech.

  Still, no one would believe she’d been cheating with a Malcolm.

  The wind sobbed at his back, and he huddled further down into the enormous black woollen coat that swathed him in warmth, his breath hitching in his chest as he tried to control his panic. Hannah looked so cold lying there beneath the snow; what little he could see of her skin already turning blue, her lips bled dry of colour. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, look too close – her features were obscured by a mask of blood, crimson staining the pristine snow beside what was left of her head.

  He shifted slightly, took a step back so that he couldn’t see the ruin of her face anymore. From where he now stood, so that she was lying with her back turned to him, he could fool himself into thinking she was asleep.

  Something cracked behind him, and Nick whirled round – aghast at the sight of Malcolm, breathing hard, a wrench in his grubby little hand. He was standing on a patch of ice that had cracked under his considerable weight – shame he hadn’t been on the frozen pond rather than the path. He stood there, chest heaving and a rueful grin on his face, his shirt pulled out and the tattered front of it spattered with Hannah’s blood.

  “Nick.”

  He nodded in spite of himself. “Malcolm.”

  “I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Malcolm said, a nervous smile playing around his lips.

  “I think that’s fairly obvious, don’t you?” Nick nodded at the wrench.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I can see how that would be misleading.”

  “That’s a bit of an understatement, Malcolm, don’t you think?” Nick stared down at Hannah’s body and willed her to move, to twitch even, to give some sign that he was wrong. She wasn’t dead, this was still… salvageable.

  “What, you think I killed her?”

  Nick studied his opponent, suddenly unsure. Malcolm certainly looked shocked. His complexion, usually so ruddy – especially when exerting himself – was now pallid. Sweat stained his shirt and even the neck of his jacket. His expression had turned absurdly mournful, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.

  “I didn’t kill her, Nick,” he said. “I loved her.”

  The laughter had escaped before Nick could stop it, and now it stained the air with its presence. It seemed profane to laugh with Hannah lying there, her head caved in and half her face gone. He coughed, and tried to steady himself, but the laughter bubbled upward every time he imagined Malcolm and Hannah – his Hannah – together.

  Nick watched as Malcolm stood straighter, his pudgy features drawing themselves into a frown. Colour had started to return to his cheeks; a sickly, puce hue that made him look dangerous. He took a step forward, ice crunching under his feet, tapping the wrench against the meat of his thigh, and Nick took a corresponding step back.

  Malcolm had almost reached Hannah now, and Nick groaned at the thought of that bastard touching his wife – hadn’t he done enough? He watched in disgust as Malcolm dropped to his knees – flinging the wrench aside – buried his face in his hands, and started to cry. Great, coughing sobs and snorts. As disgusting as ever, Nick thought, then winced. He edged forward, cleared his throat.

  “Get away from her.”

  Malcolm wiped his eyes and looked up; piggy eyes squinted in the sunlight.

  “What?”

  “You’ve done enough, for God’s sake. Get the fuck away from my wife!”

  Sitting back on his haunches, snot hanging from his chin, Malcolm began to chuckle. “You still think I killed her!” He struggled to his feet, coughing and gasping as he fought to get himself under control. “You bloody idiot!”

  “Of course you killed her!” Nick wailed. “You had a fucking wrench in your hand! Look at it, it’s covered in blood!”

  Malcolm raised his palms in a placatory gesture, glancing towards the wrench where it lay on the snow, blood blossoming around it. “I can see how it looks, mate,” he said.

  “I’m not your mate!” Nick yelled. “I never was, you moron! Hannah would come home and tell me about your clumsy efforts at getting her into bed and we’d laugh! We’d laugh and laugh, because she wouldn’t have looked at you in a million years. She loved me!”

  “That’s what you think, is it?” Malcolm’s voice was quiet now, barely audible, and he spoke in a tightly controlled monotone – his words like bullets. “You think she loved you?”

  He stared down at Hannah, his features softening, just for a moment. When he glared back at Nick, they were like stone – his eyes boring into Nick’s weary face. “She was tired of you,” he said, his voice flat and uninflected – and Nick flinched. “I knew she didn’t love me,” Malcolm said. “That never mattered; we were friends.”

  Nick sneered, and Malcolm frowned and clenched his stubby little fists, snarling: “She made those stories up, you idiot! She knew what a jealous prick you were, and didn’t want an argument!”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nick muttered. “Of course you tried; I mean, look at her!”

  “It didn’t matter because I’m gay,” Malcolm said. “She just didn’t want an argument, that’s all. She just wanted a quiet life.”

  Nick stared. “You mean I was right?”

  “What?” Now it was Malcolm’s turn to look blank.

  “I told my mates you were gay, to keep them quiet.”

  Malcolm just gaped, not understanding.

  “You know; you’re the boss, she’s the secretary…”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Oh, naturally. So I had to be sleeping with her, or at least trying.”

  Nick nodded. “That’s right. Stands to reason.”

  This time Malcolm actually howled in amusement. “You absolute cretin.” He glanced around, taking in the bleakness of the landscape, the frozen-over pond, trees reaching for the sky with bony fingers… and not a living soul in sight, apart from the two of them. He giggled again, and looked over his shoulder at a holly bush by the pond, overhanging the water. “Can you believe this?” he called.

  A familiar voice answered. “I can.” Nick’s mistress rounded the bush and walked towards them, smiling. “He never was bright.”

  “Claire?”

  “Well done, Nick; you got one right.” She reached Malcolm and put an arm round his shoulder, kissed him on the cheek.

  The little man smiled, gripping her round the waist. “See, sis? I told you he’d fall for it.” He turned to Nick and the smile faded, his hatred plain to see. “You were so worried your beautiful wife was going to cheat, even with a loser like me.”

  Claire tutted, and shook her head. “No, Malc, you’re not.”

  “I am,” he said, and smiled. “Look at me. I know what I am.”

  He turned to Nick. “But Hannah never treated me like a loser. She was my friend. And week after week I had to listen to her crying about some suspicion or other: she’d looked too long at the barman when you took her for a drink; why was she wearing make-up, when she just wanted to look nice for you. You’re a fool, Nick; you never once saw how lucky you were. Most blokes would give anything to have what you had.”

  “She was mine,” Nick snarled. “I know what blokes are like. I was just looking out for her.”

  “With your fist?” Malcolm screamed at him now. “You hurt the one person who never would have hurt you back, you fucking moron! She loved you. Even when you hit her.” He shook his head. “The excuses she used to come out with.”

  Nick turned to Claire, unwilling to believe. “So how do you fit into this? What was your part?”

  “To keep you busy, lover,” she answered. “While you were sleeping with me, Hannah an
d Malcolm could plan a new life for her.”

  “You didn’t even like me?”

  She stared at him, her eyes hard, contemptuous. “Of course not, you’re an idiot.” She let her gaze travel down his body. “But you’re not a bad-looking idiot, and it was all in a good cause.”

  “What cause? You fucking killed her! How the hell did that help?”

  The first blow glanced off the side of his neck, numbing his shoulder and driving him to the ground. Nick knelt beside the body of his wife, stunned, a trickle of blood working its way inside his shirt.

  This close, he saw that something was wrong. Hannah’s skin looked shiny under all that blood, waxy. Her eyes stared blindly upward, but had no depth.

  The second blow hit him squarely in the back – high up – and he pitched forward, fighting for breath. Something had cracked, and now each breath was a struggle. He hoped it was just a rib or two, not his spine. He rolled over, and groaned as he saw Hannah standing over him with the wrench. Tears stained her cheeks, cutting a line through her foundation; mascara had run halfway down her face, blackening her eyes – she looked like a living skull.

  “You bastard,” she spat, and raised the wrench above her head. “Why couldn’t you just believe I was dead?”

  “Hannah…” he reached for the body, and felt at last what they’d done, how easily they’d deceived him. It was a dummy, nothing more, the face smashed in and covered with blood so he wouldn’t look too closely. Add a wig that mimicked Hannah’s own hair, and her clothes, and cover her body with enough snow that he didn’t think anything of her being so pale, or rigid… He was stupid. They’d been right, and now it was too late.

  The wrench came down again; this time it hit his jaw, breaking it and smashing out several teeth. There was a dull thump inside his head as something burst, and the power went out of Nick’s body. Blood sprayed into the air, the last colour Nick saw. Things were going dark, and Hannah stood in front of him, her bloody weapon held tightly in both fists. She was sobbing.

  She raised it once more. He tried without success to raise a hand to stop her, succeeding only in making his fingers twitch. Hannah paused, just for a moment, and whispered: “All you had to do was believe, Nick. I’d have been gone, and safe. And so would you.”

  He shook his head, trying to show it wasn’t too late, she could go, he’d let her… but the wrench came down, obliterating his face and ending it.

  Ending everything.

  Hannah dropped the wrench, and watched as Malcolm and Claire soaked her husband’s body in petrol.

  Malcolm hesitated, lighter in hand, and looked at her. “We don’t have to do it,” he said. “We can leave him like this; they’ll think it’s a robbery or something.”

  “No,” Hannah said, and shook her head. Claire picked up the wrench and wiped it down with her scarf, then stamped a hole into the ice and dropped it in to the pond. “I need some time to get away, start again.”

  Malcolm nodded, clicking the lighter. Flame bloomed, and he dropped it onto the body. Nick erupted into a beacon of light, and was consumed.

  Finally, she was safe.

  In My Mind, Mine Understanding

  It was the brittle sound of her fingers snapping that brought him back to his senses. He looked down to see his fingers digging deep into the flesh of her hand, blood welling out of the wounds. He felt sick. Her screams echoing through the tunnels brought him back with a jolt; and he realised with a growing sense of despair that it had happened again. He could feel the rage deep within his brain – like a pulsating, icy cold nugget of hate, desperately grasping for control. While exhaustion had lulled him, cocooning his senses, his hands had once more succumbed to its grip – had taken on a life of their own; and this time they weren’t giving up without a fight. Try as he might, his grip would not let up. He could see splinters of bone grating against each other deep within the raw, sundered meat of her fingers, and felt sick. Sobbing, he tried to explain, but was prevented from even doing that. All that came out were a series of moans and guttural ramblings; sounds that were easily drowned out by the cacophony of the girl’s manic screams. Thank God there was no one around at this late hour to hear her.

  The blood streaming down her fingers and his finally greased her hand enough for her to be able to wrench away from his grasp, and she was gone. Running down the platform to the exit, cradling her crushed hand against her body, still screaming. He was left standing there, tears streaming down his face at the hurt he (no, not he, this other, usurping the use of his hands) had inflicted. His hands lay inert by his sides, now his once more, but he knew no relief. Control had simply been relinquished, for the moment. Custody was only temporary, and he knew it.

  He could feel it still. Deep within his mind, a throbbing globule of hatred, slowly seeping its pus; infecting the surrounding cells, spreading its influence by the second. He could think of no way to stop it. It was there, seething, like the humming of a generator, just below the level of consciousness. His hands fluttered once, twice, waiting for the right signal to goad them into action once more.

  A train pulled slowly into the station, trundling its way to a weary halt. The doors sighed open in front of him, and he stepped gratefully into the harsh glare of the interior; ready and waiting to be swallowed by the tunnels, away from prying eyes – and hopefully, at this time of night, from further victims. Thankfully, the carriage was empty. He sprawled across one of the double seats and closed his eyes, willing the night’s events to disappear. Maybe it was all a bad dream, and he’d wake up in bed next to his wife. Memory prodded him mercilessly, and new tears rolled down the still sticky tracks left on his face. He wouldn’t be waking up next to Sandra any more, not now. That was where all this had started, and there could be no going back. He wondered if the police had found her yet, stiff and cold in their frigid parody of a marital bed, with her face all black and swollen, the imprints of his fingers embedded deep in her throat. Exhaustion whispered softly once more, and he hurtled gratefully into oblivion. But he couldn’t forget, not even in the darkest recesses of his mind. Then again, maybe there, at least, he didn’t really want to.

  He was Robert Leary, and everyone always said he was the nicest man you could ever wish to meet. A deeply Christian man, he was always the first to offer aid where it was needed; and he tried his best to live by the Lord’s Commandments. He was honest, God fearing, and kind – and he would not countenance any failure in himself to meet these ideals. Any evidence of his sinful, if human, condition was remorselessly pushed down, and he endeavoured to find the right thing to do in any such circumstance. When he married Sandra, he thought life was just about perfect. Alright, so she had her faults; but no one was flawless. Therefore, on the occasions (more and more frequent) when he considered she had been unkind or untruthful, or just un-Christian, he endeavoured not to judge, and made a real effort to forgive and understand; and things went along just fine, at least as far as Sandra was concerned.

  True, he finally realised what a prize bitch (God forgive him) he had married, but by then it was too late. Divorce was not an option, so he saw his marriage as penance for some long overlooked sin, and devoted his life to trying to convert her – and to bear his lot with fortitude. Fat chance. She was a bitch, and she liked being a bitch, so that was that. An uneasy truce had been reached; she had her domain – the house, where she ruled triumphant with a rod of iron; and he had his, the garden – where he sat in solitary peace whenever possible. Life, of a sort, had gone on.

  And then he had woken this morning to find Sandra still warm beside him, but most definitely dead. His hands were wrapped around her throat, digging deeply into the flesh. When he had tried in revulsion to pull his hands away, they had not wanted to let go at first; and he couldn’t really blame them. It took real effort on his part to make them release her, to subdue the voice that had won control, at least temporarily. They had then hung like dead things at his sides for the best part of an hour, completely unresponsive to any at
tempts to move them. Then his hands were his once more, if a little clumsier than usual, slower to do his bidding. He put that one down to shock. If he’d but known then what he knew now, he’d have ended it then and there, once and for all.

  The sound of the doors opening stirred him from the haven of sleep, and he looked up just in time to watch the doors close - and the woman that had got on move to the furthest end of the carriage before sitting down. He couldn’t blame her; he probably looked like a drunk - assuming she hadn’t seen the blood drying to a rusty stain on his hand. He tried to conceal it, and a spasm of ice-cold fury shot through his brain as his hands jerked back to life. He suppressed a groan. Not now! Not again! He fought to regain control, and the woman at the far end of the carriage grew visibly more apprehensive. She was no longer sure whether he was just extremely drunk, or whether he was having a fit of some kind. She was just glad that the next station, Camden Town, was coming up any second now. She’d be able to summon help for him, if necessary. More to the point, she’d be safe.

  Robert knew he’d lost the battle when his legs decided to join the fray, and he was brought lurching to his feet. Struggling, he was forced relentlessly down the carriage towards her, his wayward hands already grabbing, eager with anticipation. He could see the fear in her eyes, and wanted to warn her – tell her to run, but he was struck mute. Where was the fun in telling the prey to run? The murmuring that was by now incessant in his mind swelled to a shout – a hateful hallelujah bidding his errant limbs to further violence.

  Like some still-living zombie, albeit barely, he was dragged inexorably forward. His hands reached towards her throat, and then ...

  With a clatter, the train pulled jerkily into Camden Town. His limbs were immediately his own again, the voices quieted. A façade of normality he knew from bitter experience wouldn’t last. The doors opened and he fled. Out onto the platform and up the escalators, into the haven of the myriad streets above, where he could hide, fade from sight. The woman left behind in the carriage had pulled the emergency cord and sat slumped in her seat, sobbing hysterically. A few good souls came quickly, though many more passed by, embarrassed, not wanting to get involved. The police and an ambulance were called – but when they arrived, all she could tell them was of the hands, reaching, and the eyes behind them, pleading even as the mouth uttered foul suggestions and obscenities. And about the dark blood all over one of his hands, soaking his sleeve as far as the wrist.