by Sam West
“Has that husband of mine checked on dinner?” she asked, making a beeline for the head-height oven and opening the door.
“Yes, a few minutes ago.”
“What did Justin have to say?” Scott asked me as he unpacked the carrier-bag, pulling out filters for the coffee machine and a bottle of champagne.
“He’s sold the film rights to Djinn. Can you believe it?”
“Darling, that’s fantastic,” he said, coming round the island to give me a brief hug.
“Yes, it is, congratulations,” Scott’s mum added. “I can’t believe we’re going to have a famous author in the family. Scott, I think you should open the champagne.”
“Absolutely,” Scott said with a smile. “So how was my dad? I trust he’s been nice to you.”
“Oh, he’s been lovely.”
“Good,” Mrs Jones said. “Why don’t you two go into the living-room with the champagne, I have to check on dinner. I’m sure your dad is thirsty.”
“Dad is always thirsty if there’s champagne on offer.”
Their banter was beginning to irritate me, who did they think they were, the fucking Waltons? Hanging above the island was an array of utensils – spatulas and saucepans and the like. A kebab-skewer caught my eye, firing my imagination and making my heart beat faster.
“You look all dreamy,” Scott said to me as he popped the cork and poured the frothy, golden liquid into four champagne flutes. “I’m so proud of you.”
I smiled back, I could feel my cheeks were flushed. But not for the reasons he was thinking. I wasn’t dwelling on the imaginary film-rights, I was fantasising about to whom and where to stick that scewer.
Scott handed me and his mother a glass of bubbly. “Cheers,” he said.
“To new beginnings,” said Mrs Jones, smiling warmly at me.
“To your miserable lives ending,” I said jovially.
I took a drink. No one else did. Scott and his mother stared at me wide-eyed.
“Chloe? What on earth?” Scott asked.
“Tell me, Scott, was she a better fuck than me?”
“What?”
“You heard. I know. I know all about that miserable, squalid one night stand you had when we first got together.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Oh, will you fuck off with that bollocks?”
“I think we should take this outside. Mum, I’m so sorry.”
Mrs Jones just gawped at us, her mouth slack.
“No, Scott, I don’t want to go outside, I want to sort this the fuck out, right now.”
I reached up and plucked down a hanging frying-pan, holding it like a pro-tennis player on the court. Scott eyed the frying-pan warily.
As well he should, I thought as I let rip an almighty war-cry.
His face was a picture. All the blood had drained from his face and the whites of his eyes were perfectly round. I figured he was so stunned he was rooted to the spot.
I swung the frying-pan like Andre Agassi delivering a killer serve on the tennis court, except my ball was Scott’s head. The frying-pan made a comical dong sound as it connected with his temple.
Scott crumpled to the floor and Mrs Jones screamed. I turned my attention to her, frying-pan still in hand. Her screams gave way to sobs and I smiled.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because your precious son is a cunt. Because I enjoy it. And because I like my writing to have authenticity which means, you know, research.”
Casually, I reached up for the kebab-scewer I’d had my eye on and hung up the frying-pan in its place.
“Stay away from me,” she said between hitching sobs.
I passed the scewer from hand to hand, enjoying the look of sheer terror in her eyes. She stumbled backwards, almost tripping over her own feet in the sensible court-shoes. She was heading for the backdoor and I decided to end it. It was cold outside and I really didn’t relish the idea of chasing around after her in the dark.
Lunging forward, I plunged the pointy end of the silver scewer into her heart. I fancied I heard her heart go pop, but of course that was probably just my imagination. Her eyes went big and wide as she gasped her final breath.
There was very little blood – just the thinnest of trickles that stained her cream blouse. I guessed that most of the bleeding was internal, and that her insides would be a bloody pool right about now. She slumped against the island counter before sliding to the tiled floor.
My thoughts turned to Mr Jones, and how much he would want to see his family. I grabbed Scott’s ankles and began to drag him across the tiled floor.
“Scott!” Mr Jones shouted from behind me as I burst through the door, back into the living-space.
For a slim guy, Scott sure was heavy and a thin sheen of sweat broke out all over my body as I dragged him into the centre of the room.
The most miserable sounding moan escaped Mr Jones’ lips and I revelled in the sound.
“Relax,” I puffed. “He’s not dead.”
Yet…
I dragged him all the way over to where Mr Jones sat, bound by the tape, and dropped his ankles. Scott’s arms were flung over his blonde head in the way they sometimes did when he was sleeping off too much booze and his eyelids fluttered, like they were trying to open.
“Scott? Can you hear me?” his dad asked.
He groaned some more, his eyes finally opening.
“Scott. Thank God. How badly are you hurt? What did she do to you?”
“Hit me on head… Christ, fucking hurts.”
He went to sit up, his torso and neck trembling with the effort, but it was obviously too much for him and he seemed to give up and lay there panting. He pressed the palms of his hands against his face, his elbows pointing skywards.
“Who is she?” Mr Jones whispered.
When Scott removed his hands I saw the tears glistening in his eyes. My heart sang at the sight of his mental and physical struggle and I ached to hurt him some more, but I wanted to prolong the fun. I left them to it, making my way back to the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.
“Let’s listen to what they say,” I said to Mrs Jones, who was staring into empty space.
I crouched down on my knees and pressed my eye to the keyhole in the door. I could see and hear everything…
“Who is she, Scott?” Mr Jones was asking, shuffling closer to his son.
“It’s Chloe. Oh God, I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on,” he said. His voice sounded thick and slurry. “Oh God, Mum. She knocked me out, I don’t know what she’s done to Mum…”
I looked over at Mrs Jones, and giggled.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, it seemed to lend him strength and he hauled himself into a sitting position.
Does he really think he can just walk away from me? I thought with interest.
Scott was busy untying his father, making mincemeat of the tape round his wrists and ankles.
Obviously I didn’t twat him over the head hard enough…
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, helping his dad to his feet. “We need to call the police.”
Scott left his dad standing there and lurched over to the phone on the drinks’ cabinet. He picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear. He frowned in confusion, and it took a moment for him to notice the cut wire.
“Shit,” he said, the receiver dropping from his hand. “My mobile is in the car.”
He stumbled over to his father who was standing there in a daze, swaying slightly on the spot. Scott grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the door. It was kind of hard to tell who was supporting who.
“But Elizabeth,” Mr Jones said.
“We need to call the police first, and quick, before she comes back.”
Was he right, I wondered, or was he just being a coward? I mean, I’m a woman, for pity’s sake, I thought Scott has bigger balls than that. As a writer, I’ve always wondered how people would really react in such a horrendous situation. I mean, you can empathise and sp
eculate until you’re blue in the face, but you never know for sure. If I had of been writing this scene, I would’ve made Scott burst into the kitchen and attempt a rescue mission. He would have had no qualms in restraining me anyway he saw fit, and just like that, the tables would’ve been turned. Scott would’ve been victorious and he and his dad would’ve escaped into the sunset…
Except that wasn’t what happened because real life isn’t like that. Like I say, you never know for sure how someone will really react until it actually happens.
Seeing as they were seconds away from leaving the house, I thought it was time I restored order. I reached inside my shoulder-bag for my gun, curling my fingers lovingly around the handle.
I kicked open the door with the weapon held out before me, feeling like a super-cool, super-sexy spy from some Hollywood blockbuster, or something. The truth was, I had never fired a gun before and had got this one off a drug-dealer in a club the week before.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Slowly, they turned round to face me. My stomach flipped in excitement when I saw their scared-stiff faces. I pointed the gun at each of them in turn, loving the power I had over them.
“Why the fuck would you untie him, Scott? That was really fucking stupid. “In fact…”
I pulled the trigger, aiming for his leg. He went down, and Mr Jones screamed.
“Scott,” he cried, falling to his knees next to his son.
He lay unmoving on his front and his dad reached down to feel for a pulse at his neck. He must have felt one, for he breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
A puddle of blood expanded around his shin, seeping into the joins between the floorboards like mini rivers.
“I can’t believe the silly cunt untied you,” I grumbled. “Lie on your front, you won’t get loose a second time.”
Passively, as if the fight had been knocked out of him, Mr Jones lay down on his front. I strode over to him, yanking his arms behind his back. The rip of the sticky-tape unravelling made me smile – there was absolutely no one left on God’s earth to untie him now.
“You ain’t getting out of that one, bitch,” I said cheerfully.
I went back into the kitchen to fetch Mrs Jones. It wasn’t right she was stuck out in the kitchen, I mean, how sexist is that? As I had done with Scott, I grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her into the living-room to join the party.
I dragged her into the middle of the room and dropped her feet. I stood there for a moment to catch my breath and stared down at the dead woman. I turned round to face Mr Jones, who had pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this?”
I regarded him thoughtfully. “You should ask your son that. Shame he’s unconscious and dying from blood-loss as we speak.”
“Elizabeth?” Mr Jones called out. Obviously, it fell on deaf ears. “Why are you doing this?” he wailed again.
I was getting a little bored of his whiney attitude.
“Look, Mr Jones, the fact is, I really hate your son. He was unfaithful to me and I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to punish him. And now I’m going to have to punish you too, for asking really stupid fucking questions.”
I looked down at the gun in my hand. Won’t be needing that for the minute, I thought, popping it back into my bag.
I reached down, not breaking eye-contact with him and picked up Mrs Jones’ leg by the ankle. The sensible black court-shoe hung off her foot and I threw it across the room for dramatic effect. For some reason, I found the sight of her toes in the flesh-coloured hosiery deeply arousing. Somehow, her tight-clad foot took on a whole new meaning. It became symbolic of my mission, of how something so seemingly ordinary could turn so delicious and seedy. How any situation could descend into madness at the drop of a hat.
The rest happened in a blur, I just remember the blood, seeping from her foot. It didn’t pump, seeing as she was dead, and I admired the lazy, sensual quality of her flowing blood. I was so turned on, so ‘in the moment’, it’s all gone a bit hazy in my mind. Nothing seemed real, I felt detached from everything and everyone, including myself. It was as if I was watching myself from afar, a ghostly witness to a scene of great eroticism.
From my shoulder-bag I pulled out a serrated bread-knife – a little something I had picked up in the kitchen – and sliced into Mrs Jones’ foot. Well, not so much sliced, as hacked.
It felt amazing to saw her toes clean off and I couldn’t tear my gaze off the bloody spectacle.
I toppled backwards, the end of Mrs Jones’ foot coming away in my hand. I only just managed to right myself in time so I didn’t land smack on my arse. Still crouching on the floor I smiled at Mr Jones, popping the bloody lump in my mouth and sucking it like a kid sucking an ice-lolly.
I had always wanted to drink someone’s blood, it’s been a life-long fantasy. That night was my first. My first of a lot of things, as it happens. Let’s just say it was a long time coming and I went a little wild.
Spitting out the yummy toe, I turned Mrs Jones over onto her front.
“Elizabeth,” Mr Jones sobbed. “You fucking, fucking bitch.”
“Well, that’s not very nice now is it?” I huffed.
Mr Jones turned his attention back to his son. “Scott,” he hissed. “Scott!” he said again, louder this time when he didn’t reply.
Scott mumbled something incomprehensible into the floorboards.
Still alive then, I thought.
“Hang in there, Son,” Mr Jones said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
As fucking if…
Scott didn’t reply. The puddle of blood around his legs was expanding by the minute and I knew he would die of blood-loss if he didn’t get to a hospital soon. And there was no fucking danger of that.
Mr Jones burst into tears. Maybe he had just worked out his wife was dead, I don’t know, but he gave in to the tears of self-pity and frustration. I couldn’t help but think he was a bit slow on the uptake if the penny had just dropped. I suppose shock will do terrible things to the mind.
“Elizabeth, oh, Elizabeth,” he said through choking sobs.
Delaying what I was about to do to Mrs Jones, I went to Mr Jones.
“Will you stop with the moaning?” I said, pushing him in the chest so he went sprawling backwards. Mr Jones cried out and landed in an ungainly heap on his side – that wasn’t going to make his sixty-something bones feel very good, I reasoned.
“Why are you doing this?” Mr Jones asked in a surprisingly strong voice, considering the state of him.
I stared down at him, hands on hips and legs apart.
“I already told you, Scott was unfaithful to me, I found that text from that slag thanking him for such a special night and saying they should do it again sometime. And the spineless cunt only went and dumped her by text message. He doesn’t deserve to live, and neither do you, seeing as you brought him into the world.”
Mr Jones struggled back up into a sitting position, holding his body awkwardly.
Steadfastly, he refused to look at me.
“Why did you kill my wife?”
“Questions, questions, questions. Don’t make me gag you. If you must know, I inserted a kebab-scewer into her heart, minimum mess that way. I want her intact for what I have planned for her.”
Mr Jones wept like a baby. “How could you?”
“How could you?” I mimicked.
In the blink of an eye, I crouched down before him, my fist curling in the collar of his shirt. I yanked him forward so that I was nose to nose with him. I caught a waft of stale garlic and whiskey on his breath, and wondered if he could smell his wife’s flesh and blood on mine…
His torso seemed to lurch, like a wave of nausea had hit.
I guessed he had smelt it, then.
I let go of his shirt and he wobbled precariously, almost landing on his back. He sat there, chest heaving, but appeared to get the urge to puke under control. While he was bu
sy working on his breathing technique, I pulled a bread-knife out of my shoulder-bag – the same breadknife that I had used to hack off Mrs Jones’ toes.
Mr Jones looked down at what I was doing and seemed to inhale a scream.
“No,” he coughed and spluttered, trying to twist away from me.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I said, slapping him across the face.
The slap had the desired effect; it cut his protests dead. I continued to cut through the front of his shirt. And when I had done that, I undid his belt buckle and I unzipped his fly. Because it was too awkward to lift up his backside, I hacked through his chords and underpants so the tops of his thighs and flaccid dick came into view. The material flapped pathetically around his privates, and I laughed at the state of him.
Mr Jones closed his eyes in disgust, as if he could pretend it wasn’t happening. Silly old fool, I thought happily.
“Look at me,” I instructed Mr Jones as I crouched there before him.
Mr Jones turned his gaze on me, his expression stony and dead. But he wasn’t fooling me – I could see his shame beneath the surface of his eyes.
“You know, you ain’t half bad looking for an old guy. Do you work out?”
He just glared at me.
“Wow, I didn’t know old people could blush. Seeing as you’re sat there half-naked, it’s only fair that I do the same.”
I got to my feet and lifted the dress above my head, throwing it to one side. I’m quite the exhibitionist, and I don’t mind admitting it. I love it when men look at me.
“Do you think I’m hot?” I asked as I reached behind my back to unclip my bra.
I cupped my double DD tits, giving them a little jiggle for his benefit. My nipples puckered between my splayed fingers.
“Do you think I’m hot, Mr Jones? Do you like my tits?” Mr Jones looked away, a red tinge shading his hollow cheeks. “I said fucking look at my fucking tits.”
He gasped in outrage when I took a running kick at his head. Mr Jones flopped sideways, an angry red mark on the side of his head where my high-heels had made contact. He lay unmoving on the floor, his expression vacant and staring into space.
“You seriously need to start doing as you’re told,” I said, kneeling before him.
