‘Of course,’ I said keeping my tone carefully neutral. I nodded at the holdall. ‘Going anywhere nice?’
‘What’s it to you?’ His jaw jutted belligerently.
‘I’m just making polite conversation, Marcus.’
‘Polite?’ he asked incredulously. ‘There’s nothing polite about you.’
I sighed. ‘Look, we both know this marriage is over. But until everything is signed, sealed and delivered, can’t we just rub along together as we always have done and make the best of a difficult situation?’
His lip curled. ‘You’re very like your mother sometimes, Florrie. Appearances are everything, eh? I’ll bet when you were rolling around on Luca Serafino’s sheets, you never begged for it like a decent whore would. I can imagine you now, spreading your legs for that tosser and saying,’ my husband immediately adopted a falsetto voice, ‘“Oh, Luca, baby, if it’s all right with you and it’s not too much trouble, would you fuck me…please”.’
The air in the house was rapidly turning to poison. I stared at my husband, partly astonished and partly afraid. There was something about him I didn’t recognise.
‘Marcus,’ I said evenly, ‘never in our five years of marriage have I insulted you for your extra marital affairs. I’ve forgiven you over and over and over again. Don’t put this on me just because, for the first time, I’ve allowed myself to be comforted by another man.’
‘Comforted?’ he sneered. ‘Is that what you’re telling your family and friends? That another man has “comforted” you? Get your head out of those candy-floss clouds, Florrie.’
He began to walk slowly towards me, his whole demeanor becoming one of menace.
‘There are lots of words for what you did with Luca Serafino, but not one of them falls into the category of “comforted”.’
He was two steps away from me, his face a mask of vitriol. Alarmed, I jumped to my feet and scurried behind the sofa.
‘The correct word for what you did, Florrie, was “shag”. Good old-fashioned shagging. Banging. Screwing. Fucking.’
‘Stop it,’ I protested, and moved swiftly to the left as he manoeuvred around the arm of the settee. Although I’d now put some distance between us, it wasn’t nearly enough to feel safe.
‘“Stop it”,’ Marcus mimicked. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t say that to your lover, did you?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ I protested and hastily shifted to the other end of the sofa as Marcus took two swift paces in my direction. ‘Why the hell are you carrying on like this?’ My voice sounded feistier than I felt. ‘You know perfectly well it’s not justified. You’ve behaved like a male tart. Before now I’ve even been to our GP to have an STD treated, all thanks to you sleeping around and not using a condom for safe sex!’
‘Don’t you have the audacity to talk about safe sex to me,’ Marcus roared.
Two red marks stained his cheeks, fanning outwards and turning his entire face a blotchy magenta.
‘If my wife had practiced what she’s now preaching to me, she wouldn’t be up the duff with the local rake’s bastard seed in her belly.’
He darted towards me, one hand outstretched to grab my wrist. I snatched my hand away in the nick of time and fled across the room to the dining table. It was a lot more solid than the sofa and, thanks to eight sturdy chairs planted around the wooden oblong, afforded more distance between us.
‘Marcus,’ I gasped, ‘this is crazy.’
I grabbed the back of one of the chairs and clung on to it for support. My legs were starting to feel weak. They trembled slightly, as if some invisible transformation was going on under the skin, liquefying the very bones within.
‘Only a few days ago you were suggesting we stay together…that you’d raise this baby as your own!’
For a moment his face crumpled, as if he might break down. Seconds later he recovered his composure.
‘Yes, Florrie,’ he said, his voice chillingly calm. ‘I could have so easily done that,’ he nodded slowly, eyes not leaving mine as he began to move stealthily around the table towards me again.
I stumbled to the right this time, willing my legs to work as I tried to match him pace for pace and maintain the distance between us. On the table a vase of flowers rocked unsteadily as our bodies bashed against chairs and knocked against the solid framework. A part of me hoped the vase didn’t topple. If water slopped it would cause the polish to bloom and spoil the wood. Another part of me wondered how on earth my brain could detach and come up with such a trivial thought when, right now, my husband was stalking me like some sort of modern-day Jack the Ripper after his quarry.
‘So what’s caused you to now behave like this?’ I squeaked before scooting smartly to the left as Marcus whipped round to my right.
‘What’s changed, Florrie,’ my husband enunciated through clenched teeth, ‘is that when I suggested being your baby’s daddy, I didn’t have the entire village knowing my wife had been bedded by Luca Serafino. I didn’t have Mrs Thompson taking my money for a newspaper before casually asking, as she doled out my change, how I felt about being a cuckolded husband?’
‘I’m sure a know-it-all like Mrs Thompson is more than up to speed with your own playing away,’ I retorted.
‘Maybe,’ he nodded. ‘And before you hear it from Mrs Thompson or Annabelle Farquhar-Jones, I might as well confess about my fling with Harriet Montgomery.’
For a moment I was so shocked I couldn’t move and only narrowly avoided Marcus’s hand swiping after me. We paused at opposite ends of the table, me panting and out of breath, Marcus simply smiling nastily.
‘Don’t look so gobsmacked, Florrie. Harriet’s a complete man-eater.’ He tilted his head to one side as if considering. ‘Not a bad fuck as it happens. But she carries on in the bedroom like there’s a hidden camera. Lots of hair flicking and pouting and diva-like behaviour. It got a bit bloody boring after a while. Not that it matters. She’s moved on. Can you believe she’s switched her attention to old Hooray Henry next door?’ Marcus gave a peculiar high-pitched laugh. ‘Harriet clearly likes old men. Just like Alison. Meanwhile,’ his eyes glinted with fresh malice, ‘I have a wife to punish.’
In a split second Marcus changed his stalking strategy and grabbed a chair. Yanking it backwards, he climbed onto the padded seat, knocking his head on the ceiling light in the process. The lampshade swung backwards and forwards like a demented metronome. I let out a blood-curdling scream as realisation dawned that Marcus was going to catch me by simply walking across the table top. As he sprang onto the wooden surface the vase of flowers immediately toppled over. It fell sideways with a hollow clunk, dripping upturned stems as rivulets of water ran in all directions.
Darting forward, I snatched up the vase and brandished it like a sword. A few remaining chrysanthemums plopped onto the floor. I cowered and stared up at him.
‘Stay away from me, Marcus,’ I warned.
My voice was shaking so much I hardly recognised it.
‘I hate you, Florrie,’ Marcus growled. ‘I detest the very sight of you.’
‘Then go away and leave me alone,’ I whimpered.
He crossed the table expanse in two strides. Shrieking again, I made to dash away but tripped over a chair leg.
‘That’s it, Florrie,’ Marcus jumped down in front of me, ‘you scream. Squeal your little head off.’
With one hand he lunged at me, and with the other he caught a fistful of my hair. Suddenly my head was being wrenched back so hard I thought all my vertebrae would pop and break, one by one. Before I knew what was happening, Marcus had pinned me against the wall.
‘Is this what you did for Luca, eh? Did you scream?’ His breath on my face was hot and sour. ‘DID YOU SCREAM FOR LUCA TO FUCK YOU, FLORRIE?’ he bellowed.
Spittle flew from his lips, speckling across my cheeks. I tried and failed to shrink into the brickwork as my husband continued to impersonate a madman. For a surreal moment it felt like we’d become characters playing parts in a horror movie. E
xcept this was no play-acting. This was reality. And it was going on right now in our innocuous looking front room.
‘Please, Marcus,’ I begged.
‘Please? PLEASE?’
Suddenly I was being violently shaken and my head banged hard against the wall.
‘Did you plead with Luca, you bloody bitch?’
He shook me again causing my head to repeatedly whip backwards and knock against the wall.
‘Did you plead for him to stop?’
Suddenly his hands were all over me, pawing at the front of my pyjama top. Buttons snapped and pinged, bouncing off the arches of my bare feet. My pyjama top gaped open exposing my breasts.
‘Did Luca do it like this, Florrie?’ he hissed, one hand grabbing soft flesh, fingernails digging painfully into a nipple. My head slammed back for the umpteenth time as Marcus’s mouth suddenly came down hard on mine.
I couldn’t take any more of this. A part of me couldn’t believe this was happening. Marcus was panting like a marathon runner, his breath coming in great chuggy gasps as his teeth bit into my bottom lip. One thing was clear. I was about to be raped by my own husband.
Without pausing to think of the consequences, I raised my hand high over Marcus’s head and swiftly brought the vase down with all the strength I could muster, praying to God it met its target. There was a stomach-flipping thwack of china against bone. Marcus grunted in both confusion and pain as, without missing a beat, I raised my arm again…and again…and again. I was still smashing the vase against Marcus’s skull when he’d long since slumped to the floor, and I only stopped when the vase finally broke in half and I was one-hundred-per-cent sure Marcus wasn’t moving.
I leapt backwards, away from his inert form, dropping the remaining shards from my hand as if they were suddenly molten. My lungs were pumping air in and out at a rate never experienced before and my heart felt like it had transformed into a trapped bird bashing under my ribs. As I stood over the inert form of Marcus Milligan, my hands fluttered up to my face and I began to uncontrollably shake.
Dear God. I’d only gone and killed my husband.
Chapter Thirty-One
Standing over my husband’s body, I became aware of terrible screaming. Shock was in full play now and it was several moments before I realised the ear-piercing din was coming out of my mouth.
Turning on my heel, I fled. I had to get out of that lounge. As fast as possible. I skidded out into the hallway, almost tripping over Marcus’s packed bag. Yanking at the catch on the front door, and without even bothering to lock up, I roared across the landscaped space that separated Daisy’s house and mine. In my peripheral vision I was aware that Alison had pulled up and was getting out of her car on the driveway of Number 3. Tiffany was with her. The two of them regarded me in astonishment. I avoided their stares as, whimpering now, my body shivered and shook like a junkie suffering major withdrawal. As I skittered to a stop on Daisy’s doorstep, too late I realised my breasts were still on full display.
‘Good God, Florrie,’ Alison thundered, mouth pursing. ‘Cover yourself up! What a disgraceful example you are to Tiffany.’ She grabbed hold of her daughter’s hand and frog-marched the child towards their own front door. ‘Come on, Tiffany. Get inside now. And stop gawping at Florrie. She’s clearly lost the plot.’
I attempted pulling my pyjama top together with one hand whilst thumping on Daisy’s front door with the other.
‘Help!’ I shouted feebly. ‘Help me!’
My voice dried to a croak as the last vestiges of strength left my body. My attempts to rouse Daisy were reduced to simply patting her front door.
‘Help,’ I moaned into the letterbox flap.
Alison had now ushered Tiffany into her house. She turned back to have some final stern words.
‘You need help all right, Florrie.’ Her tone was furious. ‘Daisy and you make a bloody good pair spending your days dressed in bed clothes and, according to Mrs Thompson, your nights in each other’s arms. Talk about leading a double life. I hope the pair of you are thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.’
My legs would no longer hold me up and I dropped to my knees on Daisy’s outdoor Welcome mat, palms still flailing uselessly against the wood panels. My throat was drier than sandpaper, and my heart had apparently relocated to my oesophagus and was now fluttering like a tiny butterfly determined to choke me. I couldn’t speak properly. Even breathing was difficult. A weird light-headedness was making its presence known. Passing out was imminent.
Suddenly Daisy’s front door flew open. I fell into her hallway, nose-diving onto the strip of carpet that acted as a runner.
‘Florrie!’ Daisy exclaimed. ‘Dear God in heaven, whatever’s the matter?’
She bent down to help me up. She was wearing a face pack and two towels – one wound around her head like a turban, the other wrapped about her body. She clutched the latter with one hand to maintain her modesty whilst helping me up with the other.
‘Help,’ I rasped, collapsing against her.
She shut the front door and led me into her lounge, speaking all the while in a low soothing voice, as if she were addressing somebody of limited intelligence.
‘It’s okay, darling. This way. That’s it. Good girl.’ She patted the sofa. ‘Down you go. There. Well done.’
She held my hand and crouched down in front of me. Bits of her face pack cracked and fell onto the carpet. I’d evidently interrupted her making the most of Tom and the kids being out of the house. My neighbour must have been enjoying some rare pampering time in readiness for the May Ball later this evening.
‘Help,’ I mouthed, eyes wide and staring.
‘Do you need an ambulance, darling?’ She peered at me anxiously. ‘Is it the baby? Are you bleeding? Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Try and tell me what’s happened.’
I nodded, my eyes huge with the horror of everything that had happened, mentally still seeing Marcus sinking to the floor, replaying in my mind the vase continually cracking against his head until both china and skull fractured. The imagery was playing on an endless loop, like some sort of horror film that wouldn’t turn off. Except this was no horror film. It was real life. I took a deep shuddering breath.
‘Marcus told me he hates me and he went and bought a newspaper but dumped Annabelle for Harriet and packed his bag and Mrs Thompson has told everybody everything and he ran around the sofa and jumped on the table and the wood is all spoilt and I broke the vase and now Marcus is dead and Alison thinks we’re lesbians.’
Daisy regarded me silently for a moment. Then she patted my hand again before standing up and going to her drinks cabinet. She returned with a large brandy.
‘Drink,’ she ordered.
‘The baby,’ I gasped.
‘Drink,’ she said again and pressed the glass to my dry lips.
Obediently I took a sip, gagged, swallowed, and took another sip.
Daisy nodded her approval.
‘You’re in shock,’ she declared. ‘Now then, how about you try and tell me again what’s happened, Florrie, but this time a little slower. From the beginning, please.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sipping the brandy I stuttered, shrieked, wailed and wept as I told Daisy how Marcus and I had started a row which had swiftly escalated into nasty words and, finally, a full-blown violent domestic with his attempted rape only halted by my bashing his brains out with a vase of chrysanthemums.
‘I’ve killed him, Daisy,’ I sobbed into the brandy glass. ‘I’ll go to jail for this. I’m a murderer.’
‘Calm down, Florrie,’ Daisy said sternly. ‘Now you listen to me. You are not a murderer. You haven’t got it in you.’
‘Oh but I am. And I have,’ I howled.
‘Did you see bits of brain everywhere?’
I paused, studying the mental imagery still playing in my head.
‘No,’ I shook my head, ‘but he’s definitely dead. I bludgeoned him, Daisy. I’ll go down for this. You’ll see.’
&nbs
p; ‘You’ve probably just knocked him out.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well why don’t we go and look?’
I recoiled, shaking my head vehemently. ‘I’m not going back into that house. There’s a corpse on the floor of my lounge.’
I shuddered violently. I’d never seen a dead body before, much less a living person morph into a dead one right before my very eyes. I could feel hysteria getting a grip again.
‘Florrie, stop,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘Now sit tight, sip your brandy, and don’t move. I’ll go and check for myself. Where’s your house key?’
‘I don’t have it,’ I sobbed. ‘I just legged it and left the front door wide open.’
I could imagine a police officer having a field day over this.
“So, Mrs Milligan. After you cold-bloodedly killed Mr Milligan, you fled the scene of the crime? That is so typical of a guilty person. You’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life.”
I whimpered into my brandy glass. Margaret and Philip would never speak to me again. I’d snuffed out the life force of their only child. And what of my own parents? I could imagine Dad, lowering his posterior onto the loo, shaking out the local newspaper for a peaceful read and then staring in confusion and horror at the headline.
LOCAL ARTIST REDUCES HUSBAND TO A STILL LIFE
And what of Mum? She’d be mortified. I could see her visiting me in prison, her lips so permanently compressed she could no longer physically apply lipstick.
“Beryl and the girls have banned me from the rambling group. I’ll never be able to go out in public again. As it was, I was forced to travel here with a coat over my head.”
‘Florrie?’
Daisy gently touched my arm. I realised she’d been speaking to me and I’d not taken in a word.
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 17