The Story Collection: Volume Two

by Matt Shaw

  I bit into my hamburger - cooked to perfection by Ronald McDonald - and slowly started to chew it. Savoring the taste whilst keeping a firm eye on the nuggets in front of my wife’s setting at the table. If she doesn’t eat them - and she won’t - it’ll be a shame to waste them. McDonalds, KFC, Burger King...they’re all the same...perfect for people such as myself; people who can’t cook. The only problem is that they never fill you up for very long.

  “You going to eat that?” I asked.

  No answer. Is she really still giving me the silent treatment from last night - her last night of breathing. I love how women use the silent treatment against us when we’ve allegedly done something wrong. Little do they know...we love it. Still - she didn’t say she was going to eat it so I’ll take that as a ‘please help yourself’. I leaned across the table and pulled her box of food over to where the remnants of my own meal were waiting to be devoured. She’s just being rude now, not even looking me in the eye when I talk to her.

  I can fix that.

  I stood up, pushing my chair back, and walked around to where she was sat. Carefully I moved her head until it was sitting more centrally on her shoulders. No sooner did I let go, it flopped back to the left - tongue poking from her pretty little mouth. Only myself to blame. The force I hit her with, last night, pretty sure I heard a crack from her thin neck. Might actually be broken.

  I can fix that too.

  Just need to make a small incision in her neck and insert some small metal rods. Sure that’d work. Just means she’ll have to wear polo jumpers for a while.

  “What?” asked my wife, Naomi.

  I blinked. Back in my chair opposite her. I hadn’t moved.

  “Nothing,” I said as I took another bite from the crappy meal she ‘lovingly’ prepared.

  “You were looking at me.”

  “And that’s not allowed now?”

  “You had a funny look in your eyes - I thought you wanted something.”

  “Wondered if you could pass the salt.”

  “Ah, okay, experimenting with telepathy. How’s that working out for you?”

  Sarcasm; another of the traits which have made me grow to hate her. Looking at her, I wish last night hadn’t been a cheese-induced dream. It’s funny, they say that you’ll get nightmares if you have cheese before bedtime but last night’s dream, that wasn’t a nightmare. Hell, if she hadn’t woken me up with the fucking hoover there’s a good chance it would have ended up being a wet dream. One of those mornings where you desperately try and get back to sleep just so you can continue your dream from where it was disturbed.

  “Now where have you gone?” she asked.

  “What? Nowhere.”

  “You can talk to me, you know.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  Nothing to say, at least, which would interest her or not cause an argument. I could tell her the steak is overcooked. I could tell her the chips haven’t been cooked long enough. I could tell her my drink isn’t cold enough. I could tell her that leaving the television on, in the other room, is a waste of electricity. Hell, I could even tell her about my dream and how I bashed her fucking head in with a hammer.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “No.”

  “Well what about work?”

  “What about it?”

  “How was your day?”

  “So-so.”

  “So-so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ben, I’m really trying here.”

  “Trying to what?”

  Hopefully an answer other than ‘wind me up’.

  “To communicate! It feels like we haven’t spoken for weeks.”

  Months actually.

  “I’m just quiet. Nothing really to say. I don’t want to talk about work. I’ve been there for the past eight hours. Now I’m home I want to be here. Not mentally back in the office.”

  “You know, there’s no talking to you. You’re an asshole.”

  “Oh, nice. I’m an asshole.”

  “Yes,” she hissed. She picked her unfinished meal up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. I tried to sound like I cared but I’m pretty sure it didn’t come across.

  “I’m going in the other room to watch television. I’m not sitting here in silence.” She didn’t wait for an answer or for me to beg her to stay - just as well really because there was no answer and certainly no begging. “You didn’t even thank me for dinner!” she said as she slammed the dining room door shut.

  Thank her? For this? I looked down to the plate. I actually feel guilty a cow had to die for this. What a waste of a life. Killed just to be put into the bin. Poor bastard. Maybe I should have said something to her. Should have said something a long time ago - nipped it in the bud when she first started dishing up substandard meals.

  The door swung open and Naomi walked back in - a frying pan in her right hand. She sensed my displeasure at the meal? I guess telepathy is working out pretty well after al.......

  DONK!

  DONK!

  DONK!

  ROMANCE

  IS DEAD

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Ben?” I whispered.

  He didn’t respond; just fell face first into his dinner.

  “Honey?”

  My hand, still holding the frying pan, was shaking like a leaf. What had I done? I dropped the pan onto the floor and took a step back. I looked at Ben. Is he dead? Had I really killed him? No. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t do something like that. That’s not who I am. I don’t even know what possessed me to hit him. Why did I do that? Something inside snapped. I took a clump of his dark brown hair and pulled his head out of his dinner. With my spare hand I pushed the plate out of the way before placing Ben’s head back down, - turned to one side so his cheek was on the wood.

  “Ben?”

  I knew he wasn’t going to answer. His eyes were staring dead ahead. Unblinking. Unflinching. I’ve killed him. My husband. No, I didn’t. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me. That’s not who I am. I’m not a murderer. I’m not. I’m a good person. I am. Then how come I’m not crying? My husband of five years is dead in front of me and I’m not even shedding a tear. Nothing. I just feel numb. Shock? Shocked that he’s dead or shocked that it was me who killed him?

  I rushed across the room and picked up the telephone. I need an ambulance. It might not be too late. He might be okay. Might be stunned. Maybe. I pressed the green button and the dialing tone hummed through the speaker. I can’t bring myself to dial the numbers. They’ll send me to jail. I don’t want to go to jail. Can’t go to jail. I can’t. They’ll never believe I didn’t mean to do it.

  Didn’t I mean to do it? Can’t even remember how many times I hit him with the frying pan. It was more than once. Once might have been an accident. Numerous times is ‘intent’.

  I hung the phone up and placed it back upon it’s charging unit. Can’t rush anything. Need to think about what I’ve done. Think about what I’ll say when they come and collect him.

  Self defense? I could tell them he was being abusive towards me? Could tell them...No. They’ll never believe it. Self defense yet he was killed by several heavy blows to the back of the head.

  I never thought that’d kill him. I didn’t. I’m not sure what I thought, when I was doing it. Not sure what...Did I mean to kill him? I must have done. Something inside of me must have wanted him dead. Finally fed up with his sexist behaviour. Did he ever love me?

  “Did you?” I asked him.

  Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. I’m actually thankful for that. Had there been an answer - I doubt it would have been one I would have wanted to hear. He never loved me. He couldn’t have. If he had - he wouldn’t have spoken to me the way he did. No one treats their loved ones as he treated me and yet - I heard him with his friends - he thought I was the bad one in the relationship. Yeah, well, I guess I was. I am. Fuck you.

  “Fuck you,” I repeated, this time out lou
d. Maybe he can still hear me. I hope he can. Final words to carry him down to the Hell where he belongs. Five years of shit. Four if I’m being generous but...It was definitely five if I’m going to be honest.

  I pulled a chair out from under the oak table and sat next to Ben. Sit down before I fall down. Looking at his body, I can’t believe what I’ve done. I often thought about it - thoughts, I figured, which he was to blame for. Before I met him, I would never have thought to top someone out of anger. Was it anger? I don’t feel angry. Frustration? He frustrated the Hell out of me - the amount of times I’d ask him to do something just for him to turn round and promise he’ll get right on with it. Weeks later I’d have to chase him. And he had the audacity to call me a nag. I wouldn’t have nagged him had he done what I asked the first time round.

  Well now what do I do? Not entirely convinced I thought this through properly. Who am I kidding? I didn’t think it through at all. I just went into the other room, picked up the frying pan and that, so they say, was that. I took a chip off his plate and threw it in my mouth.

  ‘Ugh.’

  Not cooked properly.

  Surprised he didn’t complain. I swallowed regardless. Jesus, I must be on autopilot, I’ve just noticed I’ve automatically picked up another chip. Comfort eating? Now probably isn’t the time. Not with him still sat at the table.

  I wonder - could I get away with forging a break in? I could tell the police I was out. Tell them I had popped to the shops to pick something up for pudding - apple crumble or something - and, when I came back, the back door was kicked open and I found Ben in the dining room dead.

  No.

  That won’t work.

  I can already feel my face redden. I’m hopeless at telling lies. I always seem to give myself away. What the fuck have I done? There’s no way out of this. There isn’t. No matter what I try - they’ll find out what happened. They always do. Maybe I could just make him disappear? Say he ran out on me. It’s no secret to my friends that the marriage is in trouble and I’m pretty sure he would have told most of his friends at work that he’s fed up with me.

  That might work. I’ll go red, when I tell people but they’ll just presume I’m embarrassed. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s never nice telling people your marriage has fallen apart. They’ll just feel sorry for me. They won’t suspect I’ve actually killed him. Sure they won’t.

  I can hide him here somewhere. Maybe in his precious wine cellar. Failing that I could dig a pond, in the garden, and make him part of the foundation late one night. The neighbours know I’ve been talking about putting in a pond for months now. In fact, that could be good. They all knew he was dead against it. He used to say how much work ponds were. Now he’s out of the picture - the neighbours will see me outside digging what I’ve always wanted. They’ll be happy for me. Glad I’m getting on with my life. Moving on. A pond would be a perfect ‘fuck you’ message to Ben - if it were ever able to get back to him. The important thing is - the neighbours will think it’s the perfect little ‘fuck you’ message back to Ben.

  See, I just needed to calm down from my initial panic. Everything is starting to work out nicely. Sure some people might ask where Ben has gone but I’ll just tell them I don’t know. Why would I know? He stormed out of the house after an almighty argument and I haven’t seen nor heard from him since. I could even tell people he’d been seeing someone else for the past two years or so. They’ll think he’s gone off to start a new life with them. That could work. It’s all about the detail.

  More reason for me to be embarrassed too. Not only has my marriage failed but it’s failed because I couldn’t satisfy him as much as this other woman...This whore...Shannon. I’ve always hated that name. I’ll blame it on a Shannon. Some cheap tart he met whilst working away one weekend. That’d work too. I’ll tell people he let slip the name by accident. He refused to tell me on which of his many trips away he met this bitch. He left his car here, in the drive, because she picked him up in her own transport. The more I think about it, the more the details write themselves. This is easy. I should have done it months ago. Years, maybe.

  I threw the next chip into my mouth.

  Jesus, how did he not complain? He complained about everything else.

  I swallowed it down and didn’t pick another one up.

  Looking at Ben, I feel excited. A fresh start for myself. I’ll ‘grieve’ my marriage for a couple of months and then start mingling with new people. With him dead, I feel alive. More so than I have done before. I wish my autopilot had engaged years ago and taken care of Ben for me. Despite my initial reaction - this really was the best course of action. Today ended up being a good day and, tomorrow, I’ll start digging my new pond. If any neighbours see me, and come out for a chat, I can always start the ball rolling with my made-up fantasy...

  I looked at Ben. It’s late. He isn’t going anywhere. I’m not expecting any guests, at this time of the night, so he can stay here tonight. I’m more excited about surfing the Internet for different fish species to go into my pond than to bother cleaning up my mess. One night won’t hurt. By tomorrow evening the hole will be ready and I can put him to Earth.

  I stood up and crossed the room, over to the window, where I pulled the curtains shut. Don’t want anyone peeping in and seeing him here. Not that anyone would be out back but, even so...Better safe than sorry.

  * * * * *

  I was talking to one of my cousins about what a wonderful day it had been and how beautiful I looked - their words, not mine. Although, I didn’t disagree with them - nor did I disagree with my other friends and relatives, in the hall, when they said similar statements. I just thanked them for their comments and continued to keep an eye on Ben who was busy working the other half of the room; doing the rounds, thanking people for coming and, no doubt, agreeing with them when they say the whole day has been lovely and I look great. I loved watching him talking to the various people we had invited - some I recognised and others, I guess, were just here as one of the many plus ones. Ben looked handsome in his black suit, white shirt, black waist jacket and burgundy tie. I couldn’t remember the last time he wore a suit. Seeing him now, I wish he wore them more often. Just because he works in a factory, doesn’t mean he can’t make the effort occasionally.

  “Look, she can’t keep her eyes off of him...” said my Aunt Claudia.

  “Probably making sure he isn’t running off with one of the bridesmaids,” spat Liz, my distant cousin. Poisonous, jealous bitch. She was only here because another cousin had made her their ‘plus one’. I had to pretend her invite must have gotten lost in the post.

  “It’s sweet,” Claudia continued - thankfully choosing to ignore my cousin’s venom.

  Claudia was right, I couldn’t take my eyes off my new husband. Even if I could - I wouldn’t have wanted to. Why would I? He looked good and when our eyes occasionally met, across the crowded room, my heart skipped a beat. A great feeling. I loved how he made me feel.

  Eventually, after what seemed hours of working the guests - ensuring we had spoken to everyone - we finally met up in the middle of the room.

  “Mrs. Ducel,” he said.

  “Mr. Ducel...”

  * * * * *

  I opened my eyes. The laptop, next to me on the bed, is still on the Google Image screen displaying numerous different pictures of fish species. Must have dozed off whilst trying to decide on which ones would look nice in my new pond.

  I didn’t like my dream; made me start the day on a downer. I know I killed him but the dream reminded me how much I loved him - when he wasn’t being a sexist pig anyway. He wasn’t always sexist and generally rude to me. I’m sure he wasn’t. He just seemed to get worse as the years went on - as though he no longer needed to impress me or make me feel loved. I wish he hadn’t changed from the man in the dreams; the man I loved. Things could have been so different today. We could have even had kids by now. God knows I wanted them. Still do.

  I closed the laptop down. Not really in the moo
d for ‘fish shopping‘ today. Talk about ‘waking up on the wrong side of the bed’.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hello, this is Mrs. Ducel - may I speak with Ben Ducel’s line manager, please?” I used my best telephone voice; trying desperately hard to sound as though everything is fine in the Ducel Household other than a make-believe illness bug that’s struck Ben down for a few days. Crap hold music. You’d think a company this big could afford something decent to be playing down the line to their potential customers. Nothing makes me want to hang up more, on a company, than when they choose something cr.... “Yes, hi...This is Naomi - I’m afraid Ben won’t be able to make it into work today...No...Some sort of sickness bug, he’s been up half the night with it!” I used to hate having to call into work, when I was ill. I always used to ask my mum to do it for me. I was scared my boss, or work colleagues, would think I was just pulling a sickie because I fancied a day in bed. “I’m not sure whether he’ll be in tomorrow...I’d like to hope so but you never know with these things...Yes, yes...I’ll keep you in the loop...Okay...Thank you. I’ll pass it on. Okay. Bye. Bye.” I hung up.