by Amanda James
And now I have everything I ever wanted – we are man and wife at last! How ironic – I just can’t live with the guilt. Since her murder it’s eaten me up. Twisted my heart. Awful dreams of Penny haunt my sleep and guilt stalks my waking hours. Has for weeks. I need to pay. It’s fitting that I should go the same way as my poor first wife.
Please try to find it in your heart to forgive me, my darling, and be happy one day…
I fold it back up and wipe a tear. Such a moving letter. Well written. Even one of the female officers who read it at the time had moist eyes, I remember. They had to question me routinely, even though they had the notes, but it was just a formality. I couldn’t fault the police in their professionalism, and their compassion overwhelmed me. But then who could fail to be moved by a woman of my age cruelly widowed, not once, but twice in such a short time?
I turn from the beach scene and walk into the kitchen, prepare a gin and tonic. I inhale the sharpness of the lemon, and the ice cubes tinkle as I take a big gulp. That’s better. There’ll be no more maudlin thoughts of the past for now. I toast Dan, and despite being a widow again, I know for certain that my life will get better as each day passes. Goodness knows I’ve had enough misery.
I decide a few crisps will go well with the drink and I grab a packet before going along to the study. I’ll get a couple hours of writing in before it’s time to pop to Helena’s for dinner. Our relationship is back as it should be, thank heavens. And she’s pregnant! I can’t stop thinking about it. Early days, but we’re all overjoyed.
I fire up the laptop and think of Jack. Poor love was so upset for me, when he’d found out about Dan’s suicide and what he’d done. He’d kept apologising that he’d been too pig-headed and washed his hands of me. He said he should have tried harder to keep me from marrying Dan. But I told him that it really didn’t matter. And it really didn’t; how was Jack to know the extent of Dan’s evil? I’m just glad that Jack and I are big friends again. I think he and Felicity will pop up this weekend. They often do, now Dan’s not around. So, all’s well that ends well.
I look at the blank screen and take a sip of my drink. I’ve a fantastic idea for a new suspense novel. A woman goes skinny-dipping in their new hot tub with her new husband, but drugs him because he’s done some despicable things. He has to pay for what he’s done. Besides, he’s dangerous and unpredictable – she has to protect herself and her family from him. Who knows what he might do in the future? Champagne and antidepressants don’t mix, and as soon as he’s unconscious, she slits his wrists. The woman has an alibi, however, because she was babysitting her grandson at her daughter’s house at the time. The grandson that sleeps through, who’s never scared of the dark, or wakes until morning. But how is this possible? She can’t be in two places at once, can she?
No. Because she isn’t. She leaves her sleeping grandson and dashes back up the road to her house and husband, does the deed, and rushes back to the daughter’s house. She then pops round to the daughter’s neighbour, Mrs Jacobs, to make sure she’s seen around the time the husband died to borrow an iron to help her daughter out with her laundry. She couldn’t find her daughter’s iron anywhere. Mrs Jacobs, if questioned by the police would say what a lovely mum the woman was to Helena and how thoughtful. Mrs Jacobs has seen how busy poor Helena the daughter is, and so to come back to a freshly ironed pile of clothes would be such a help. She’d say that the woman would have loved to have stopped for a chat, but she had to go back next door as the grandson might wake at any moment. He’s going through a bit of a phase you see.
Even though the woman had written a fake suicide note for her husband in a scrawly shaky hand, just like Penny’s, she had to be sure her alibi was watertight. Wouldn’t her hair be wet, or at least damp if she’d been in a steamy hot tub? Wouldn’t Mrs Jacobs ask about that when she went round to borrow an iron? The woman could say she’d just washed her hair – or better still, she could have worn a bathing cap in the hot tub, told the husband she didn’t want to get her hair wet because she’d have to dry it back at her daughter’s and the hairdryer noise would disturb the child. Yes, no point in having wet hair to cause the police to be suspicious. Hmm, that would work… And it bloody well did.
I swirl the ice cubes round my drink with my finger, drink and smile. A good idea for a story, certainly – but a shame I can never write something like that. People might get a bit suspicious.
For the first few days after I killed Dan I felt terribly guilty, but it had to be done. I was able to rationalise the guilt away fairly quickly. It was me or him, and the way he’d killed Penny, attempted to kill Alison, and constructed evidence to frame me if necessary – well, it had to be him. He was an egotistical controlling maniac who wouldn’t hesitate to have me put away. And he’d a temper – he used to hit Penny, how could I be sure he wouldn’t do the same to me, or worse if I told the police what I knew?
I was a bit guilty too about how I’d fooled the police – but only a bit. I’m mainly proud of my response on that fateful morning. If anyone deserves a bloody Oscar, it’s me. The way I’d collapsed in a heap between two coppers when I’d seen my “poor darling Dan” dead in the tub. The way I’d sobbed as if my heart would break. That bit wasn’t too hard – I was crying because I was shitting myself about being caught out somehow.
I drain my glass and pick the lemon out, enjoy the bitter-sweet taste as I suck it dry. That’s what Dan was doing to me. If I’d not killed him I’d have been sucked dry, chewed up, spat out. And if I’m honest, the guilt I felt wasn’t really about killing him. It was about doing something so wrong, so calculating – the worst thing you could ever do in life to another person. He turned me into a murderer and I’ll never forgive him for it. I’m a bit ashamed now of the power surge I felt on that night. It was intoxicating – liberating, necessary. The shame will fade though, I’m sure.
I think back to that night when he was slipping into unconsciousness, slumped to one side his head back looking at the stars. I was able to relive the scene in my novel – the one I never got to write because of Dan’s antics. He looked so beautiful, so accepting of where he was going – the next step on his journey. Then he’d closed his eyes and I’d got out of the tub, taken his wrist, held it under the water and drawn the razor blade swiftly across the vein. A spurting fountain of crimson tried to break the surface of the water and just for a second, Dan had opened his eyes and looked at me. I think I might have seen surprise, but I couldn’t be sure. I slashed his wrist again and let the blade sink to the bottom. His eyes closed, and he peacefully slipped away.
I stare at the screen some more and decide I don’t want to write a suspense novel for a while. I can take my time over choosing the next book now, thanks to Dan. Because of becoming Mrs Thomas, I never have to worry about money again, not with all his property and savings. Marrying him was a necessary evil, just like his murder, but the path ahead is full of sweetness and light. I’m so looking forward to reopening the retreat in a few months. It’s been closed since Dan’s “suicide” to show respect. But that venture was one of Dan’s better ideas. Over the past week since it’s been re-advertised, there’s been a flurry of bookings. I’m convinced that some of them have only booked because they’ve heard of Dan’s macabre passing. According to their forms, a good few are attempting to write murder and mayhem – some suspense writers must be sick in the head.
For now, I won’t start anything new. I think I’ll just do a bit on finishing that bloody Christmas story I started ages ago. A nice gentle Christmas romance with a happy ending is what’s needed. If I get it done in time, my publisher might put it out this year. I need to get my work out there again. It’s been too long, and I don’t want to be forgotten. Thinking of happy endings, in a few weeks I might contact Harry, see how he’s doing. He’d sent me a sympathy card with his new phone number in it last week. He’d said how sorry he was to learn of Dan’s passing, Lydia had told him apparently.
I’d emailed Lydia recently to s
ay the retreat was closed and why – and I was sorry, but I’d had to cancel her rebooking for this year for now. Harry had also said in the card that anytime, day or night, if I wanted a chat he’d be there for me. I picture his handsome face in my mind’s eye and remember how well we got along. I smile at the thought of getting to know him better in the very near future.
Come on, Sam. All this pondering isn’t going to get this damned Christmas story finished, is it?
I flex my fingers over the keyboard and begin to type.
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Acknowledgments
To my family for your continued love and support. A special thank you to my editor Morgen Bailey and the rest of the fantastic Bloodhound team. You're all wonderful! And of course a huge thanks to all the bloggers and readers who have left fantastic reviews for my books over the years. I couldn't do it without you.