Here was the love of my life, lying dead in my arms, and I had killed her. To one side of me, still, was the top of the broken bottle, covered in blood. I could tell now that there was no cut on my hands. The blood which had congealed there was from the fatal wound in Harriet’s skull.
I cannot be certain how long I sat there, maybe it was a few minutes, maybe an hour. I was stunned and paralysed by my grief. I felt an irritation on my neck and touched it, to find it soaking wet from the rivers of tears which were still running freely. Now and then a huge welter of grief would rise up and wrack me uncontrollably, as if my own soul was trying to escape from my body, and I had to swallow back hard to remain alive.
Now, and only now, did I begin to think about the consequences of what had occurred. I had killed my wife. Yes, unbelievable though it seemed, I was a killer. A few hours ago I was a man, and now I was a murderer, someone who had taken the life of another person. It all seemed so strange, so surreal, that all these events which had happened in our private lives now also would be played out in public. My wife’s adultery had been a personal matter, and somehow, in a way I cannot explain, my wife’s death also seemed to me to be our business and our business alone; something which existed between her and me. But my wife’s murder was not just going to be a matter of our business, it was going to be everyone else’s business. Adultery was a private matter, but murder most certainly was not.
While for all these weeks I had been left alone with the torment which arose from discovering my wife’s unfaithfulness, now my pain would become of consuming interest to the outside world. People I had never met would be privy to my most intimate feelings. Everyone would have an opinion. The neighbours, the newspapers, their readers, everyone would have their little piece to say. No one who read our story would care that I loved her as much as I did, or that at this moment I would gladly change places with her. No one would believe it or care about it if they did. All they would see is a killer, a man with blood on his hands.
However intense and sincere my private shame and regret, however real my grief, was a matter of no consequence. Society demands that justice must be done, and that it must be seen to be done. The law would have to take its course, the murderer must be punished. But there, in that flat, with Harriet’s lifeless head resting on my legs, it all seemed so inappropriate. Still it seemed to me to be a private tragedy, in which the loss of her was my punishment, and would be for the remainder of my life.
For now, though, the woman who had given me a reason to live was lying beside me, utterly lifeless, and never to return to me. People say they feel that a part of them has died, and something like that is how I felt now. My life could never again be whole. I was bereft.
But Harriet was not my sole reason to be. I had another important role in my life, another responsibility, and now my thoughts turned back to Roger. In a very few hours he would be waking. I did not know exactly when he had returned to the flat, or indeed why. Entering through the front door and going directly to his bedroom, it was entirely possible that he might have seen nothing. Perhaps he had heard raised voices and done exactly that – put himself directly to bed. The look of serenity on his sleeping face gave me hope that this might have been so. Equally, even if he had come in at the end of my argument with Harriet, it must be questionable what, if anything, he would remember in the morning. It was by no means unknown for Roger to experience events which might seem traumatic to others, and for them to have been entirely erased from his mind by the following day. Then I began to think, and instantly to become alarmed, about how he would be likely to react to the present scene. Most probably he would be confused and then thrown into a panic, and then the situation would be beyond recall.
What then? When the police arrived, I would be taken away. What would happen to Roger? Difficult though it must be to believe, at that moment I was instantly more concerned about what would befall my brother as a consequence of the previous night’s events than about what would befall me. My path was obvious and inexorable. Even at so young an age, I knew that clearly. I was going to be arrested, I was going to trial, I was going to prison, and that would be the end of me. There was no “after that”. That was it, my lot, the unavoidable consequences of what I had done. Roger’s destiny was something else. I began to consider the possibilities. Probably he would be taken immediately into some compulsory care facility. He would be confused, lost, and heaven knows what trauma he would go through in his mind as he failed to comprehend what was happening to him. The idea appalled me.
Eventually Roger would no doubt be placed in an institution of some kind where he would be surrounded for all of his time, for ever, by others with problems parallel to his, or worse. This thought horrified me even more, and instantly I rebelled against it. Then I thought about my parents, our mum and dad who had always allowed themselves some consolation in knowing that I would do whatever I could to look after Roger. I had a momentary flashback of the original case conference at the hospital which would have consigned him to an institution, and which had impelled me to take over responsibility for Roger’s care in the first place. Now I would be unable to do so, and my older brother would pay a higher price than I would for my terrible crime.
After I had been completely in a daze, a stupor, these thoughts began to galvanize me. Was there any alternative to the horrors which currently seemed inevitably to flow from my actions? Were there any choices to be made? Was there, in short, any way that I might be able to get away with what had happened here in my flat this evening?
As I looked around, down at Harriet’s inert body, across at the bloodstains on the rug, over to the bloodstains on the wall by the light switch, at the bloodstains on my clothes, I thought that there was nothing to be done. It was 3.30 a.m. and evidence of a violent crime was everywhere. In a very few hours it would be the dawn of a new day, and with it would come unavoidable discovery.
With a growing sense of urgency, I began to move in what now may seem like a surprisingly controlled way. I knew that I had to think quickly. The first issue was Harriet’s body. From having viewed it only moments ago with overwhelming regret, I was now very quickly looking at it as a problem to be resolved. If she was still here, in the flat, by the time Roger awoke, all would progress beyond salvation. I knew immediately that I had to get her out of here to somewhere safe, where she would remain undiscovered while I returned to clear up, and then have time to consider a longer-term plan.
Instantly I knew that I had a single option. There was only one place outside of the flat over which we had any control, and that was the insect farm. If I could get Harriet’s body there, it would give me a chance to clear my head and to think about what to do next. I swear that my motivation at this point was not about me; now I was utterly preoccupied with what would happen to Roger, to his welfare, to his life, if I was not around to take care of him.
It was a distance of less than 250 yards to the allotments, and I knew that the chances of being able to take Harriet’s body all that way without meeting anyone, without being observed and without leaving any trace, were close to zero. Still, if there was any chance at all, it was better than the alternative. If I did nothing, discovery would be inevitable. It might be a very slim chance that I could get away with it, but it was better than no chance at all. The only thing I had in my favour was that it was December, bitterly cold outside, and no one with any choice in the matter would be likely to be out in the small hours of the morning. Anyone who was on the streets would be going about their business and, with any luck, might take little notice of anything else going on around them. Or so I could only hope.
Most of the blood from the wound in Harriet’s head had spread on the rug in front of the sofa, and so I knew that this had to go too. I remember thinking it was fortunate that the rug was just a bit longer than Harriet’s body; amazing how quickly, in emergency, we can start changing our perspectives. I dared not allow myself to look any more at Harriet’s face, and was grateful that once aga
in her hair fell to conceal it as I began to roll her over. One turn, two turns, and now what had just hours ago been a lively and lovely human being, my beautiful and most loved wife, was a parcel, bundled up and ready for disposal.
I have heard people before and since say how heavy a dead weight can be. I have to say that this was not my experience. Harriet had never been a big or heavy person, and had become even more slight since the summer. Also I think that my state of desperation and the powerfully flowing adrenalin may have given me additional strength. In any event I had less difficulty than I had imagined in hauling my newly wrapped bundle up to a standing position and then over my shoulder. I looked around, decided that I had no choice but to leave everything else until I could get back to the flat, and opened the door. I grabbed the keys to the insect farm off their hook, and walked out.
The hallway was in almost total darkness and immediately I was in a dilemma about whether to push the button which turned on the staircase lights. Even in normal circumstances it was not unusual for the switch to turn itself off before visitors reached the ground, and I did not want to risk having to feel for the next button at the first-floor landing. I stood in my doorway and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, and decided to risk the darkness. Harriet’s body was bent at her waist and draped over my back in a fireman’s carry, leaving both of my hands free to steady myself on the banisters. I was about to take the first step down when I felt a movement at my feet, and looked down to see Olly the cat brushing past my ankles. I had to restrain myself from swearing out loud. Treading as lightly as I could, I was acutely aware of every tiny creak of the wooden floorboards. At one moment, as I turned on the next landing, the edge of the rug which was wrapped around Harriet’s body brushed against one of the doors, and I held my breath, remaining still for long enough to be certain that no one had heard. Thankfully I was able to open and close the main door to the street silently.
Had someone stopped me on that short walk to the allotments – had a police car drawn up, or even had a passer-by stopped and looked with curiosity at me – I probably would have given up there and then. As I turned every corner I fully expected to meet whatever would be the instrument of my discovery. The early-morning milkman whose decision to take a short cut would change the course of the rest of my life. The postman who decided to turn right and not left at the junction and bumped into me bearing my load. Like a high-wire artist beginning to wobble and speeding up in order to reach the rope’s end before he falls, I felt myself trying to accelerate as I neared my destination.
I glanced around me as I walked. The streets were lined with rows of Victorian terraced houses, some of two stories and some of three. I looked especially carefully at any window with a light on inside, but at no point did I see anyone looking out, nor any twitch of a curtain or blind.
A few minutes later, astonishingly, I had reached the allotments and had been seen by no one that I was aware of. Of course I could not guarantee that I had not been spotted by someone in the distance; maybe a neighbour heard or saw me go out of the house. Maybe someone made a mental note which would be recalled only later when the police appealed for witnesses. “Oh, there was that bloke acting oddly in Rosemere Street,” they would remember, and their husband or wife would urge them that their civic duty was to call the police.
The allotments were surrounded by metal railings designed to keep out the vandals, and the gate was locked with a heavy padlock. I had to use both hands and bend my knees to reach it, but even now I cannot say that I was finding my burden unduly awkward or heavy. I was even able to close the gate and replace the padlock before turning inwards and heading towards the shed which housed Roger’s insect farm.
It was another twenty yards from the gate to the shed, and I remember thinking that I was walking on soft earth, and that the patterns on the soles of my shoes would be likely to leave a distinctive print. Probably an expert would be able to tell that the person wearing the shoes was carrying a weight.
I was easily able to open the door and, once inside, I found an open area and gently placed the rug and Harriet’s body onto the floor. It seems ironic now that I took great care that her head should not bump as I settled her. Crazy, of course, but then who could be other than out of his right mind in this situation?
I made certain that every inch of Harriet was covered by the rug, looked around to make certain that there was nothing apparently untoward, opened the door and walked out, being sure to lock the door behind me and to wipe any trace of blood from the padlock on the outer gate. I knew that I still had to be every bit as careful as I had been on my journey here. It was less likely that anyone would take notice of me now that I was not carrying anything, but all the same, if seen by someone who knew me, I would have little chance of producing a plausible explanation of what I was doing out at 4 a.m. on a winter’s morning. I pulled up my collar and hurried back through the streets, retracing my journey of just a few minutes earlier. At one point I saw a light being turned on in an upstairs window, and could make out the shape of a man wearing a dressing gown coming into the room, scratching his head as he stepped forward to glance out into the street below. I walked just a little faster, keeping my head down and my collar up. I did not think that he had seen me.
Back once again inside the flat, I went immediately to the bathroom with the intention of splashing water on my face, but as soon as I was inside the door I felt an instant rising of nausea and could only just manage to get to the lavatory in time to lift the seat before I retched violently into the bowl. It was that sickness when you have thrown up many times before and there is nothing more inside you to come out, so that all you have is the pain of stomach contractions. As though my being was trying to express the horror of what was going on, trying to expel the monster from inside of me before it could eat me from within.
After a few moments I ran the cold tap and cupped my hands under the flowing water. I was about to put my face in it when I realized that my skin was still covered in dried blood. I reached for the soap and began turning it relentlessly, and then for a little nail brush that I kept on the sink and I began to scrub until it hurt. Only then did I feel I could rinse my face and, grabbing a towel and burying myself in it, I pressed the tips of my fingers into my eyes, as though to blur out the images that assailed them.
In the mirror, my skin appeared pale and puffy and looked as though someone had shaded large dark semicircles beneath my eyes. My lips seemed to have had the blood drawn from them and had vanished into a thin horizontal slash across my face. For the first time, I felt that I could not recognize the person that looked back at me. It was the face of a murderer.
I had to focus. I needed to set about clearing up the flat, and especially taking care of any of the more obvious signs of dried blood before I would have to wake up Roger. I filled a plastic bucket with hot water and, in the absence of anything more suitable, added a handful of the soap powder I used for washing clothes. Most of the stains from the immediate area had been absorbed by the rug, and so I made a tour of light switches and door handles. I wiped away the smears from the leather sofa, and then saw a splash of deep red just above the skirting board a few feet away. I knew I would have to clean more thoroughly later, but now my most urgent priority would be removing what I could of any sign that Harriet had been here. Even as I did so, I understood that my efforts were almost certainly completely futile. It seemed inconceivable that no one had noticed her coming to the flat last night; that none of my neighbours had heard her on the stairs, that no one had heard what must have been the crash of breaking glass which killed her. Still, by now it was as though a survival instinct had taken over my actions and I was proceeding on a kind of autopilot.
The way last night had unfolded had given Harriet very little opportunity to unpack the bag she had brought with her. It was a large black canvas holdall with a zip across the length of the top. The zip had been opened and I could see her bathroom bag, T-shirts and underwear. Again I felt the naus
ea rising in me, but this time was able to control it. I knew that I had to be certain that there was nothing of hers which hadn’t been here before. I checked every surface and could find nothing.
I looked at my watch. Now it was 4.45. Should I take the risk of going out again, and perhaps be spotted carrying a bag through the streets? I glanced out of the window to check whether it was yet becoming light. Beneath the streetlamp I saw the outline of a skip standing at the side of the road. Builders had been renovating the house opposite for some weeks, and I knew that they were close to finishing their work. As I looked more carefully from my window, I could just make out the shape of an interior door from the house, with frosted-glass panelling, on top of the discarded rubbish. I wondered if I dared press my luck, but then realized that I had very little choice. I found a black plastic rubbish bag under the sink and slid Harriet’s canvas holdall inside. I tied the end of the bag in a knot, and then carried it back downstairs and crossed the road. I reached over into the skip and lifted the edge of the door. I was able to slide the plastic bag just beneath it, so that it was almost completely obscured. I looked about me once again to try to check whether I had been detected, but could see no sign to cause concern.
I would spend the rest of the time available to me before Roger woke up further cleaning and tidying the flat, and meanwhile trying to work out what to say to him. That would depend on what he had seen, on what he remembered, and on whether and how seriously he was traumatized by it all. I had no way to tell, but understood that I would know from the first words he spoke when he opened his eyes this morning whether or not my fate, and his, would be sealed.
The Insect Farm Page 17