The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “Crap,” I whisper, as I stare down at his bruised and bloodied face. “Martin.”

  II

  His eyelids twitch.

  They've twitched before, of course, but this time it's different somehow. I sit and watch him, waiting for the inevitable, and finally it happens.

  He opens his eyes.

  “Don't be scared,” I say, trying to sound calm and authoritative. “You've been in an accident.”

  He stares at me for a moment. And then, just as I start to wonder whether he's going to have amnesia or brain damage, his eyes widen and he tries to sit up.

  The restraints pull tight against his chest and arms. He looks around, clearly confused, and I watch for a few seconds as he tries to pull his hands free from the handcuffs behind his back. He's tied securely to one of my office chairs, and I made very sure that he wouldn't be able to get free.

  “If you're wondering about the lack of pain,” I continue, “then I should probably inform you that I filled you full of various drugs. One of the perks of working as a vet. Of course, I wasn't sure exactly how much to administer, so I erred on the heavy side. If your thought processes are a little wonky, then don't -”

  “Paula?” he gasps.

  “Yes,” I reply, with a nod. “You're badly hurt, Martin. Not as badly as I expected. In fact, it's something of a miracle that you're still alive. And it's very big surprise to see you here.” I pause for a moment, slightly enjoying the panic in his eyes. “This isn't a coincidence, is it?” I add. “You came here to see me.”

  “Why have you tied me up?”

  “I checked online,” I reply. “You're in trouble, Martin. You were arrested a few months ago, after running out of your house naked in the middle of the night. Then you escaped from a psychiatric facility, and since then the police have been trying to track you down. Your wife issued a very emotional appeal, asking the public for their help. I think she thinks you're dead. She seems like a nice woman. Vanessa. A butcher. I'm glad you found someone nice, Martin. And I'm sorry that you seem to have screwed it up so massively.”

  “I wrote to you!” he gasps, still struggling against the restraints.

  “I know.”

  “You never replied!”

  “I know.”

  “I sent you things!”

  “I know.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Yes, Martin. I got them.”

  “Did you get the book I sent you?”

  “The one you wrote yourself? Yes, Martin, I got it.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Against my better judgment, I did,” I tell him.

  “It was based on you,” he stammers. “The main character, I mean.”

  “I realized that.”

  “You always loved dogs,” he continues, “so I wrote a story about what it would be like if you could communicate with them. I almost named the story after you, I almost called it Paula, but then I thought that was silly so I named it after the dog. I called it Larry.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I read it. Well, I read most of it.”

  “You didn't get to the end?”

  “I got to the part with the mold in the forest, and I lost interest. I hope you didn't seriously model the main character after me, Martin. I'd find that pretty insulting.”

  I wait, but he simply stares at me.

  “I sent you some other stories I'd written about you,” he says finally.

  “I know.”

  “They were -”

  “I didn't read them,” I add. “I only read the dog one. That was enough.”

  He stares at me, and he looks a little broken-hearted.

  “Apparently you had some kind of psychotic episode,” I continue. “That's what the papers said, anyway. You thought your wife and her friend were summoning some kind of demon. Frankly, it sounds like you went completely loopy. That's not difficult to believe.” I take a moment to clear my throat. “Oh, by the way, your nephew Bradley is missing, along with his girlfriend and her sister. Did you do something to them?”

  “Bradley?” He stares at me, and I can immediately tell that he knows nothing about any of that.

  “And now you're here,” I continue, “after all these years. You came to find me. I suppose I should be flattered, but I'm not. In fact, Martin, I'm very concerned.” I lean forward in my seat. “I thought I made myself clear all those years ago. I never wanted to see you again.”

  “But -”

  “Not under any circumstances.”

  “I have to talk to you!”

  “You're high on animal pain-killers,” I point out. “Sooner or later, they're going to wear off. If you want me to top them up, you need to not annoy me.”

  “Paula,” he stammers, “you don't understand, I -”

  “I'm pretty sure you're dying as well,” I add, interrupting him yet again. “Internal bleeding. If you were a dog, I'd be telling your owners to consider putting you out of your misery. That would be the kind thing to do. The humane thing. And shouldn't we treat people at least as humanely as we treat animals?”

  “I came to talk to you,” he replies.

  “We have nothing to talk to each other about,” I remind him. “I made that very clear ten years ago when we divorced.”

  With that, I get to my feet. This whole conversation is pointless, and the last thing I need is to have Martin back in my life. I should have known that one day he'd shown up like this.

  “Wait!” he gasps, as he pulls again on the restraints. “You can't call the police!”

  “I'm not going to call the police,” I tell him.

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  He stares at me, but I don't answer.

  “Paula?” he continues finally, with just a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “What are you going to do?”

  He stares at me again, and I can't help but note the look of utter helplessness on his face. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm getting a little carried away, but I think perhaps he's starting to realize that coming here wasn't a good idea.

  “Paula?” he says again. He glances around, his eyes darting with jittery fear from one spot to another before he turns to me again. “Hey. What are you going to do with me? What... What are you going to do?”

  III

  “You won't feel a thing,” I whisper, as I set the syringe aside and reach for the scissors. “I've made sure of that.”

  I move around to his other side, and then I open the scissors and place the blades on either side of his testicles. And then, slowly, I begin to cut.

  “Paula?”

  Startled, I turn and see my assistant Jackie standing in the doorway. I hadn't even heard her knock.

  “I'm really sorry to interrupt you when you're performing a procedure,” she continues nervously, “but... Well, the police are here. They want to talk to you.”

  I hesitate for a moment, before looking down at the dog on my operating table.

  “Tell them I'll be out in five minutes,” I say, before getting back to work. “Tell them I'm castrating a sausage dog, and I'll be out as soon as I can.”

  ***

  “Do you mind if I ask when you last heard from your ex-husband?”

  “Um...”

  I pause for a moment, pretending that I have to think about the question. This Detective Palmer seems fairly uninterested in my answers so far, and I get the distinct impression that he's only here today because he's been told to double-check a few loose ends. Even now, as I hesitate for perhaps a few seconds too long, he seems more interested in a nearby poster about obesity in pets.

  “Ten years?” I say finally. “I think. We married young and we divorced young. I made it quite clear to him at the time that I didn't want to remain in contact.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “Not very well, but he didn't have a choice. I moved across the country and I tried to keep my new address from him. He found it somehow and sent me a few things, but I never replied and eventually t
he letters and parcels stopped arriving.”

  “What kind of letters and parcels?”

  “The letters were just attempts to make me change my mind,” I explain, “and the parcels were gifts. Just little things, nothing special.”

  “I don't suppose you kept any of them, did you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “And since then, he hasn't been in touch?”

  “Absolutely not. I mean, I heard about him getting into trouble recently. A friend of a friend sent me a link. I read a few news stories about it, but it never once crossed my mind that he might come and track me down. I still think that's extremely unlikely.”

  “We're just considering all the possible options.”

  “Totally. I get that.”

  He makes a few notes in his little book, and then he sighs.

  “He's probably dead,” I say suddenly.

  He glances at me.

  “If he's been missing for this long,” I continue. “Don't take this the wrong way, but Martin was never much of an outdoorsy kind of person. I can't imagine him being much of a Bear Grylls survival expert. He's quite the fantasist, though, or at least he was when we were married. His mind was always off somewhere else, he could convince himself of the most ludicrous things. If you ask me, he went off into the wilderness and ended up starving to death. I know that might sound harsh, but...”

  My voice trails off for a moment.

  “Well,” I add finally, “I assumed you were going to ask for my opinion.”

  “I certainly was,” he says, as he makes more notes. “To be perfectly honest with you, given your ex-husband's state of mind when he escaped from the hospital, we find it difficult to believe that he could evade recapture for so long.”

  “So you think he's rotting somewhere too?”

  “I'm not at liberty to say that.”

  “I know, but it's a reasonable assumption to make.” I pause for a moment. “When Martin and I separated,” I continue after a few seconds, “things got... messy. He was becoming paranoid, he was developing these wild fantasies. For a while, I don't think he was quite able to distinguish between reality and fantasy. I stood by him for a long time, I tried to help him, but eventually I had to look after myself. I was given a sudden career opportunity and... Well, this might make me sound like a bit of a bitch, but I wanted a husband. Not a patient.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “I was pleased when I heard that he'd re-married, though,” I add. “I admit, I was a little surprised. I couldn't help wondering what kind of woman had managed to calm him down. I guess it was too good to be true, though. His paranoia and fantasy eventually burst back out.”

  “We're pursuing several possible leads.”

  “I always thought that he'd go completely nuts eventually,” I continue. “I mean, when we were together, he accused me of...”

  My voice trails off again.

  Too much information.

  “Of what?” Detective Palmer asks.

  Too late.

  “It's going to sound crazy,” I tell him, “but when we were living in Wilberton, a young boy went missing. His name was Johnny, he was eight years old. The whole village turned out to search for him, but eventually he was found dead in a field. They never caught the killer, and they never released too much information about what was done to the kid, but there were rumors of weird cults in the area. I guess this all got Martin excited, because after a while he started insinuating that somehow I was involved.”

  “That seems like quite a leap for him to have made.”

  “Tell me about it. At first I thought he was joking, but eventually I realized he was serious. He developed this weird, elaborate theory about a cult that was supposed to be making human sacrifices to some imaginary demon. And he thought I was involved.”

  “How long did this go on for?”

  “Until I'd had enough and I divorced him. It was a difficult time of my life, and to be honest it's painful for me to think back to it now. It took me a long time to understand that his accusations weren't my fault. They were all him.”

  “He made some very similar claims about his current wife,” Detective Palmer replies.

  “So I understand. It was in the news.”

  “Do you happen to know whether or not your husband – sorry, your ex-husband – ever sought help for his issues?”

  “I believe he saw someone for a while,” I reply, “but I'm not sure for how long, and I'm not sure that it helped.” I shrug. “I don't know, maybe it did. For a few years. I really don't know. Like I told you, I haven't had any contact with him in a long time. And although things ended badly between us, I genuinely wish him no harm at all. I very much hope that you find him, and that he gets whatever treatment he might require.”

  Detective Palmer makes some more notes. As I watch him scribble in his pad, I can't help but feel relieved that I seem to be escaping suspicion. At the same time, maybe this is all some kind of warning. A sign.

  I should stop.

  IV

  But is it even my choice whether to stop or not?

  As I drive along the dark country lane, heading home, I feel utterly conflicted. On the one hand, I'm immensely relieved that I managed to deal with Detective Palmer. I don't want to get over-confident, but at the same time I'm certain that he won't be in touch again. He seemed happy with all my answers, and to be honest I got the distinct impression that the search for Martin is winding down. I guess they think he's dead, and that his rotten corpse will show up some day.

  On the other hand, I've always told myself that I'd stop if I was questioned by the police. Granted, my assumption was that one day there'd be an officer or two on my doorstep, not that someone would show up at my surgery. Strangely, that's a little too close for comfort. And I've always prided myself on playing by the rules, so this would seem like an inopportune moment to change my approach. I always promised myself that I'd get out of this business as soon as the police showed up.

  Which means now.

  Tonight.

  Bringing the car to a halt, I stare out at the tarmac ahead. This is the spot where I hit Martin last night. I already checked this morning, and there wasn't so much as a spot of blood anywhere to be seen. That's something of a miracle. Still, as I sit here now with the engine still running, I can't shake the feeling that Martin's arrival was somehow guided. That a hand led him to me. Is it possible that I've reached the end of the road? Was Martin sent as a signal, as a message, letting me know that the cycle is complete? Am I free?

  That's not a word I've thought about much over the past ten years.

  'Free'.

  Free.

  “Free.”

  I sit in silence for a moment, as the engine continues to turn over. I should get going and head back home, but for a moment I like the peace of being out here on the road. I still can't quite decide how to interpret Martin's sudden return to my life, but perhaps -

  Suddenly I hear a beeping sound, and I glance at the dashboard.

  The proximity sensor has been triggered. That usually means that I'm about to reverse into a bollard, or that I'm attempting a particularly tight turn, but right now I'm completely stationary. I look all around, but all I see out of the windows is darkness on all sides of the car. The proximity sensor is still beeping, however, and as I look back down at the dashboard I realize that the beeps are getting more and more urgent.

  The damn thing must be malfunctioning.

  I reach out and bang my fist against the top of the dashboard, but of course that doesn't help at all. The beeps seem fairly consistent now, but when I look out the window I still can't see what could possibly be responsible. I'm out in the middle of nowhere, there simply can't be anything moving near the car.

  This thing is -

  Suddenly the beep becomes a loud, high-pitched drone, which usually means that I'm about to hit something.

  “What the -”

  Before I can finish, there's a heavy thudding soun
d against the passenger-side door. I let out a startled cry as I turn to look, and in that moment the entire car shudders a little, as if it was just hit by a tremendous force.

  The beep separates back down into a series of smaller beeps, indicating that something – whatever it is – just moved away a little.

  I look around, but I still only see darkness. Is it possible that a sheep or a cow has broken loose from a nearby building? I guess that could have happened, although it's hard to believe that such creatures would now be attacking my car. I hesitate for a moment, trying to think of a reasonable explanation, and then I realize that I just need to get out of here. Reaching forward, I grab the wheel.

  Suddenly the beep gets louder again, and something slams into the door right next to me.

  I scream and pull away, and the car rocks once more before settling back down. The beep is still loud, however, and a moment later there's another impact, this time hitting the rear of the car.

  “Okay,” I stammer breathlessly, “I'm getting out of here.”

  The beeping gets louder and louder as I slam my foot against the pedal. The tires shriek as the car lurches forward, but after just a couple of seconds the proximity alarm falls silent. I damn near miss the next turn, only managing to turn the wheel at the last moment, and I've got to admit that I'm feeling pretty shaken as I force myself to focus on the road ahead. I know I'll be able to rationalize all of this once I get home, I know I'll figure out some harmless explanation, but right now I just want to get home and hide behind my front door.

  And then, suddenly, there's another loud thud, except this time it's coming from directly above.

  I look up toward the roof as I realize that something must be up there. I guess the proximity alarm doesn't cover that angle, but a moment later I hear another thud, then another. I stare at the roof for a moment, before looking back at the road and seeing that I'm racing straight toward a fence. I turn the wheel sharp to the left and just about manage to make the corner with just a few inches to spare, but something's still banging loud on the roof of the car and I can feel the panic starting to rise and swell in my chest. My heart's racing and I have no idea what's happening.