Happy Ever After - Volume 1: A Novel of Horror and Suspense

by Matt Shaw

  Seriously - did he even know what shampoo was?

  I’ll have to wash my hands afterwards.

  I press down harder on the saw so the teeth bite into his neck.

  Wait.

  Blood.

  There’s already a pool of blood from where I stabbed him. That will be hard enough to get out of the carpet - unless of course I just cover it with a rug or something... even so, I don’t need more of a mess to clear up.

  I need to put him on something - something to soak up the blood.

  Or, at least, something easier to clean than carpet.

  Like a bath-tub.

  Simple.

  As long as he has a bath-tub, that is.

  I should have killed him around my house - it would have been so much easier to fix everything afterwards and I would have had the right tools for the job! I drop the saw and quickly run up the stairs to see what I can find.

  The first room is his bedroom. Small and messy, there’s a strange smell in the air.

  Don’t ask.

  Not that he’d answer if I did ask.

  The second door leads to the airing cupboard - empty. Hardly surprising. He’s probably never washed an item of clothing in his lifetime. Probably still bagged it up and passed it back to his mother.

  If that is the case, least it means there are some bags knocking about the place.

  I’ll find them later.

  The third room is the one I wanted.

  The bathroom.

  Complete with a large, white bath-tub.

  Happy days.

  Happier days had I killed him upstairs - save having to drag his sorry arse up the stairs. Still, no point dwelling on that. The sooner I start, the sooner I’m back in the safety of my own home - back to preparing it for Susie and I.

  The perfect little nest for the two of us to live happily ever after - I can’t wait.

  I shake my head.

  I’m getting ahead of myself.

  First things first. I’ve got some cleaning up to do...

  Some serious cleaning up!

  Even so - not bad for a first attempt. I’m fairly proud of myself.

  * * * * *

  Normally he’s called by now. I’d walk out, he’d let me go and then, a couple of hours later, he’d send a text which I’d ignore - after that - the telephone calls start and continue until I answer him.

  He was always persistent.

  Not now, though. Not even a text.

  Good.

  I don’t want a text message from him. I don’t want to hear from him - no text messages, no phone calls and certainly no home visits.

  Home visit...

  He wouldn’t would he? He wouldn’t skip the texts and calls and just come over would he - angry at how I spoke to him? I shouldn’t have got angry with him. I should have just got dressed and walked out - maybe even lied to him and agreed to see him again, had he asked.

  Anything to keep him happy.

  Save the possibilities of seeing the temper again.

  I let out a sigh.

  Why did I think he would have changed? Why do I always believe he’s capable of changing. The first time it ended, my mum told me that a leopard never changes it’s spots. I wish mum was here now. She always says the right things.

  It’s too late to call her.

  Why do I feel disappointed he hasn’t sent me a text? I don’t want to hear from him and yet, his silence is deafening. I roll onto my side and glance to my mobile phone that’s sitting on the bedside cabinet with it’s charger plugged in and, just as I do, the screen illuminates and a message pings through.

  A smile sneaks onto my face.

  A smile?

  Why?

  I don’t want to hear from him. Why am I smiling?

  I wonder what the text message says.

  Without getting up I reach over to the phone and pull it towards me, carefully so as not to unplug it from the wall. These smart-phones are all well and good but, they never seem to keep their charge for long. If I don’t leave it plugged in all night, and every night, there’s not a chance it will last for a full day.

  I click into the message screen; my heart beating hard unsure as to whether I’m going to be seeing a nice message or one of spite. The thing with Sam, he could go either way.

  Peter?!

  Okay then.

  I click into the actual message - ‘thinking of you’ - with some kisses.

  Erm.

  I’m not entirely sure of what to make of that.

  I hadn’t given Peter much thought since hearing from Sam again; a sign that Peter isn’t the one for me. If he had been the one - I wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking of him.

  He’s nice enough, just not the one for me.

  I can’t ignore him, though. He’s a customer. It would be awkward when he comes in. I’ll play the friend card.

  ‘Hope ur ok. I’ve had a really good think since I got home yesterday, im sorry, but i think i would rather stay as friends. had a good time yesterday, speak soon.’

  A text, like that, is normally the kiss of death to a man.

  This whole Sam escapade has just proven to me, I’m not ready for a relationship yet. I thought I was - I thought it was time to move on but.... no. I’m done with relationships for the time being.

  * * * * *

  I’m tired.

  If I ever do this again, I’m using a sharper saw. A chainsaw would be desirable. Although maybe too loud for this sort of task. Might get the neighbours complaining.

  I cast a glance back into the bath-tub, full of limbs and the ever-staring head, just as my mobile phone vibrated on the side of the sink.

  Susie.

  I’ve been thinking of her throughout this ordeal.

  Of course I had.

  Technically, it’s her fault I had to kill someone.

  No.

  No, that’s not fair.

  It’s not her fault.

  It’s his.

  The ever-staring head.

  It’s his fault.

  He obviously had a hold on her. A small laugh escapes from my mouth. He had a hold on her. Had. He certainly doesn’t have the hold on her anymore. I laugh again and turn my attention away from the not-so-smug head and towards the message that came through on my mobi - friends?

  I’ve saved her from this fuck and that’s what she wants; friendship.

  No.

  That doesn’t work for me.

  She’s obviously confused but the confusion will be cleared up - just as soon as we’re on our own. No outside interferences. Just me and Susie.

  She wants friendship? Fine. For now I’ll play along...

  I’ll be the best friend she’s ever had.

  I hit ‘reply’.

  ‘I never presume anything other than friendship’

  To prove I’m not a threat I end it with a smiley-face. I don’t bother putting any kisses. Not yet. The smiley-face made it more friendly. She could read too much into a kiss.

  I turn to the ever-staring face, “This is your fault, everything was going to be perfect between me and her before you came along.”

  Great.

  I’m talking to a head.

  I’ve finally lost it.

  I shake my head and force my mind back onto what I need to be doing; bags. I need bags. With no bags, I won’t be able to take him away. Just a few hours left. There must be a bag of some description in this house - perhaps a suitcase?

  I leave the bathroom, looking like an abattoir, and swiftly move through to the bedroom. Under the bed is the first place to look; that’s where I used to keep my suitcases - when I was in a relationship. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have left the bags within such easy grasp. I just made it easier for.... for her.... to run off.

  Don’t think about her now. There’s no time for that.

  Besides, tonight is all about my future and my future is much more promising than the disaster which was my past. I drop to my knees and look under the bed; surprisi
ngly very little clutter underneath the wooden frame given the state of the rest of the room. No suitcase though. Not even a sports bag.

  A sports bag would do.

  Irrelevant. There is no sports bag.

  Over to the cupboard; loads of clothes, some hanging, some just thrown in there - nothing of interest. Still no bag. I can’t believe I didn’t think of a bag when I came here; such a basic item to remember...

  On top of the cupboard.

  Pay day.

  A small, brown suitcase.

  Small...

  Brown....suitcase......

  Small...

  Why would he have such a small fucking bag? What use is a bag of this size?

  Small!

  I’m going to need smaller pieces.

  I begrudgingly take the small bag from off the top of the cupboard and pull the zipper open to find a hidden stash of adult magazines within. Naughty. Carefully, I take them out and hide them under the bed - trying to keep everything neat and tidy.

  Everything needs to be neat. Everything needs to be tidy. When I leave the house, I want it to look immaculate. Well.... I want it to look as how it looked before I got here. I’m not sure ‘immaculate’ is the right word. Regardless, I want it to look as though I was never here.

  I want it to look like he has simply left.

  I can’t believe I’m stood here thinking about tidying his porn up - not when the bathroom is flooded in blood and stringy stuff.

  What is that stringy stuff, I wonder.

  Not important.

  I take the bag through to the bathroom and stop in the doorway.

  Jesus.

  I knew the bag was small but - seeing it now, next to the freshly cut pieces... I am definitely going to need a lot smaller pieces. Don’t even think about it. Just get it done. Time is running out faster than I am comfortable with.

  I need to be gone.

  I step into the bathroom, dropping the bag into a puddle of blood - not on purpose - it’s just the blood is hard to avoid. No sense worrying about it, as I collect the saw from on top of the toilet cistern, where I originally left it.

  Here we go again.

  Smaller pieces.

  I wish I had a chainsaw.

  11.

  It’s been a long night.

  I’m tired but....

  ....Everything is done.

  His house is clean. If anything - cleaner than how I found it.

  His car has been left at the ferry terminal; it was a long arduous walk back.

  My own car is back in my garage; I won’t be able to leave it in there soon.

  And I have my feet up, on a certain small brown bag in my lounge, whilst I decide which floorboard to stash it under - a hot, relaxing drink in my hand as my reward for a night’s work well done.... not that I really have time for a relaxing drink! Last night took longer than I originally anticipated. Who would have thought cutting someone up would have been so much hard labour?

  Still, it’s done now.

  The only question left to answer is still, which floorboard do I bury him under? At first I thought the middle of the room would be an ideal location but, thinking about it, disturbing the boards will only cause them to creak when pressure is applied - what if Susie gets annoyed, in years to come, with the noisy floorboards and attempts to fix them? I’m not sure I could explain the bag - let alone the gruesome contents.

  Even if they are her fault.

  I think the corner of the room would be more suitable - especially given the fact there’s a plug directly above the board. That’s where I’ll plug in the room freshener.

  I have a feeling, as the months go on, I’ll be needing the plug-in air fresheners. Especially if the weather stays as warm as it has been recently. Already he isn’t smelling as fresh as he once did - and that’s saying something knowing the layers of grease glued in his hair.

  What did she ever see in him? It certainly wasn’t hygiene. Or money. I had a good look through his house, for money, before I left. All I found was a tiny pot, filled with an odd assortment of coins, some of which weren’t even English.

  I couldn’t be bothered to take them.

  My mind wanders back to the decomposing body; maybe it would be best to put him somewhere else. Somewhere where his stench won’t be insulting our senses. I don’t want to put them in the garden - whenever someone has buried their victim in the garden they’ve been caught. Normally seen, by their neighbours, digging late at night.

  Sure, I don’t have any neighbours near me for miles but - I’m not taking the chance. I’m doing this right. I don’t have a choice. One mistake and my beloved will be visiting me in prison.

  I can’t think straight. I’ll leave him in the garage for now and have a quick lay down before I carry on decorating the house. Just a quick lay down. No time for more than that.

  I stand up and take hold of the bag; it’s actually heavier than it looks. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, as I pull it off the floor, and walk it through the kitchen towards the garage.

  Of course it’s heavy. There’s a body in it, after all. Admittedly some of it is mushed up pretty bad - it’s still a person.

  Was.

  It was a person.

  As I open the door, leading to the garage, I stop dead.

  I haven’t put the shopping away that I got yesterday. Was so busy taking care of fuck-nuts, in the bag here, that I forgot. The frozen food, probably thawed out and fit for nothing but the bin now.

  Annoying.

  It’s not like meat is cheap.

  Hmmmm.

  Meat.

  Stick it straight in the freezer, it’ll last for ages. Susie liked this lad. I wonder. Would she like him with mash potatoes or chips. Should I really do this?

  Well...

  ... it makes up for the food that I left out overnight. And I so hate to waste food.....

  I step into the garage and approach the large chest freezer which is by the far wall. I’ve just had a bad thought....

  I open the freezer.

  Space.

  Always an issue in this freezer.

  Never enough space.

  I look down to the bag which is still in my hand.

  I’m going to need smaller pieces...

  * * * * *

  The alarm, programmed into my mobile phone, wakens me with a start.

  Another day.

  Great.

  Another day at work.

  Another day at work being single.

  Oh good. I’m in for one of those days. A day spent feeling sorry for myself.

  I don’t think so.

  I reach across and hit the keypad button, on the phone, which corresponds with ‘snooze’. I’ll keep pressing it until I wake up in the better frame of mind.

  Even if it means I’m late for my shift.

  I don’t care.

  I’m fed up feeling blue.

  There has to be more in life than a loser of an ex-boyfriend and working a dead end job in a shitty supermarket. A shitty supermarket with a lousy uniform.

  I’ve got rid of the ex-boyfriend. I could always quit the job too. A proper fresh start. Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll go in today and quit. Just hand my notice in. It will be for the best.

  I throw the warm duvet back, letting the cold air wake me up.

  I might as well get up.

  My brain obviously isn’t going to let me snooze.

  Hello, World.

  I swing my feet, from the mattress, onto the carpeted floor and pull myself into an upright position. I wonder, could I get away with calling in sick today?

  No.

  I need the money.

  Need to pull myself out of this negative slump that I’m in.

  First things first, need to put some clothes on, it’s bloody freezing!

  I drag myself through to the bathroom and turn the shower on - letting the water run to the desired temperature, before kicking my black panties off and stepping in; allowing the warm water to wash away
my negativity.

  Come on, girl, things aren’t really that bad.

  And, if they are, they can only get better.

  Right?

  12.

  Beans - tinned. Own brand.

  BEEP.

  Tuna - tinned. Own brand. Gross. It’s more slush than tuna.

  BEEP.

  Spaghetti - tinned. Own brand. Don’t blame them, it’s just as good as the named.

  BEEP.

  Hot Dogs - tinned. The cheap ones. What a healthy diet.

  BEEP.

  Ravioli - tinned, naturally. I’m sure this is the first tin I’ve seen pass through my till. I didn’t think anyone actually ate this; thought it was just on the shelves to keep them looking full. I stand corrected.

  BEEP.

  Sweetcorn - branded. What makes the sweetcorn so special that they need the named product. I’d ask them but... I don’t actually care.

  BEEP.

  I smile at the customer as I pass the tin across the scanning. They don’t smile back. People rarely smile back these days.

  Peas - tinned. Own brand.

  BEEP.

  More own brand beans - still tinned.

  BEEP.

  Soup. Chicken and Vegetable flavour. Branded. Tinned.

  BEEP.

  Tomato Soup - tinned. Different brand. I wonder why.

  No, I don’t. I don’t care.

  BEEP.

  Tomato Soup - tinned. Different brand to the previous tomato soup. We must have a shortage. One of the shelf-stackers not doing their job properly again, no doubt.

  BEEP.

  This is my life.

  Sardines - tinned.

  BEEP.

  This is my life and it’s ending one can at a time.

  I stop my conveyor-belt and slump back in the uncomfortable stool the store give us to ‘rest’ in.

  “Something wrong?”

  I look at the customer. Is ‘something wrong’ they ask - I wonder, would they really care if there was something wrong or are they more concerned with the fact I’ve stopped scanning through their items.

  “You okay?” the customer repeats.

  I stand up, “I’m sorry....”

  I’m not really sorry. I don’t care.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the customer.

  “I can’t do this anymore.”