Valerie had rolled with her on the floor fending off punches and blows. In all the commotion, while Miss Soames had desperately tried to break them up, and with the other girls shouting,
‘Bundle, go on, Miss Soames, give it to ‘em, put the boot in, Miss.’ Miriam’s pendant had sat neglected on the table.
Later, during the afternoon break after Miriam had left with her parents, Jean had sat with the others in the prefects’ common room showing off her Beatles LP. The pain in her knee didn’t seem to hurt now so much. Carol had erased Miriam’s name and reminded Jean to add hers to the list in the progress book. Jean had said she’d forgotten all about it, what with her fall earlier.
While passing around a cigarette, Carol had made them all laugh with, ‘Our ticket problem was solved by a four-by-two thief.’
*
On that Sunday, April 21st, Jean and Carol screamed with the others as Beatle George Harrison finished with There’s a Place. They were red and sweaty with the shouting and excitement. Then Paul McCartney had sung, I Saw Her Standing There. They had stood up with hundreds of girls singing the lyrics - sometimes breaking off and yelling,
‘Paul! Paul!’
After the show, they had all been going back to Carol’s house for tea. Her parents would be out visiting until later. Carol had smuggled in some booze, and then there had been the promise of some boys turning up.
Jean had felt good. Jean had felt wanted. She was really one of the gang now. How these things mattered so much.
*
Slowly in the warmth of the Bermuda sun, Jean’s head had drooped. The holiday book had slipped from her fingers. The discarded romance novel lay amongst the peaks and troughs of her beach towel, like a raft in a squall.
The black waiter in the smart white jacket, looked around. He discreetly thumbed the staring eyes closed. With his white matching gloves, being careful not to touch the rim, Leon removed the empty rum punch glass and placed it on his tray. He nodded and pretended to say a few words to her, as though she was still alive, then he excused himself.
Farther along the private stretch of beach, Leon served his employer, the hotel owner, Shamad Al-Jilani.
Shamad asked Leon,
‘How is business today?’
The waiter told him,
‘Business is good today, boss. Just the way you like it.’
Bath Night
It was launch day and very important to Dr Nishimura. All twelve of his team were gathered in the boardroom along with the president of Fujimoto Electronics, Dr Himura. They bowed and waited for the president to take his seat and then took their places along both sides of the long, highly-polished Japanese lacquered table.
The laboratory and workshops for Fujimoto Electronics were well hidden behind the Colney Heath Military Aerodrome just off the M25, about a mile from St Albans. Although the ministry hadn’t used the airfield for years, the barbed wire along with the Ministry of Defence notices,
TRESPASSES WILL BE PROSECUTED
Made passers-by fully aware that it was still owned by a strict landlord.
The president nodded to Dr Nishimura to open up the meeting.
‘We are ready, Mr President. The day has finally come. All the teething problems have been eliminated during our field trials.’
‘I am pleased to hear that, Dr Nishimura.’ The President looked seriously at him. ‘Any mistakes at this advanced stage would prove disastrous to our project and limit any further government funding.’ He looked to the others. ‘What about the skin colour? We have to be sure we have an ethnic range across the models to suit all the constabularies.’
A hand shot up eagerly,
‘I have it all in order, Mr President Sir,’ said an attractive white-coated technician. ‘Every detail of skin colour has been taken care of, sir.’
‘“Taken care of,”’ the president mocked and turned back to the doctor. ‘I hope you have taken care of the voice recognition problem. Three months and six hundred thousand pounds were wasted over that, Dr Nishimura. We nearly went bankrupt because of it.’
Dr Nishimura swallowed hard.
‘We have solved the problem, sir. The faulty PB boards have been replaced.’
The President lightened. He smiled and everybody inwardly relaxed including Dr Nishimura.
‘That’s good. Well done all of you. It will be satisfying to know that due to our advancement in robotics that our biggest customer, the Surrey Police Force, will have one of our human androids as an on-duty companion for every constable pounding the beat. Thanks to us, the county of Surrey will be made safer with more visible policing in the community.’
Many of them called out,
‘Hear, hear,’ and applauded.
*
Thirty-eight-year-old Donald Putting had thought about it some time. He’d read the crime thrillers and seen the television films. A Columbo in particular had showed a man killing his wife, then trying to get away with it. Unfortunately for the husband, Columbo had caught him on a technical matter.
While Donald’s wife, Janice Dawson Putting, who was a short, plump forty-something woman with a double chin and a heavily lacquered bottle-blonde beehive hair style, lounged in front of the television in her pink, size sixteen one-piece jump suit, quaffing chocolates and guzzling Sauvignon Blanc, he’d be upstairs in his study, a converted small bedroom, with the door closed, surfing the Internet.
Donald was a creature of habit. First he would go to free live sex-cams and adult sex-chat sites then, after cleaning up with some tissues, he’d go to GolfDigest.Com and read up on improving your putting. Finally he’d be Googling: How to kill your wife and get away with it.
What at first had seemed a brief, fanciful idea, had now come home to roost permanently in his mind, and he had every good reason.
His wife was the wealthy one in their marriage. As an only child and with both of her parents dead, in 2001, she’d inherited the family estate of Boddington Manor in Hampshire along with the artwork and some very fine porcelain pieces. Her father had made his money in Dawson Farming Equipment Limited. After the eleven-bedroom mansion and its surrounding grounds including the furniture and antiques had been sold off, her inheritance had amounted to around four million pounds. That had been seven years ago. Since then she’d spent money on expensive holidays for them both, a succession of flash cars and a large extension to complement their five-bedroom house on a prestigious, gated estate in Weybridge and not forgetting her husband’s business venture.
Seeing himself as an advertising executive with some very well heeled, important contacts, Donald wanted to break away from his current employer, go it alone and win his own contracts. To set this up he had persuaded his wife to invest her money to rent a London office in a fashionable business tower block. He required a minimum of four staff and a cash flow start-up for advertising in videos, magazines and other media where they could pitch their agency.
To begin with, PUTTING GLOBAL made good money. Donald undercut and wooed some customers over with good advertising campaigns. Then Laiki, a large Greek Investment Bank had wanted a complete makeover. It was a contract Donald had dreamed of. From Internet to corporate video advertising to radio, television, financial magazines and newspapers to presentation portfolios with bank counter flyers and much more.
Because of the huge amount of money involved for the campaign work, a stage payment contract had been agreed.
Bank Laiki were pleased with the first two parts of the work carried out and paid up accordingly. The third part, the Internet, radio and television advertising was the most expensive outlay for PUTTING GLOBAL. Donald had had to get an investment bridging-loan to cover the costs. However, he’d negotiated a deal with Laiki that would meet this and more.
At the time he’d thought, what could go wrong on a deal with one of the largest banks in Greece?
Then he woke up one morning and saw the news.
Bank Laiki Closes Its Doors
.
The bank’s investments in America to capitalise on the sub-prime lending had forced it into insolvency. Pictures of angry Greek customers in long queues were on the front page of most newspapers that morning. Donald frantically telephoned his contacts in Athens but all he got was an answer phone recording asking him to leave a message. By the end of the week, his contract and the four
hundred thousand pounds he’d laid out were as visible as the Titanic.
He knew it wouldn’t be long before the creditors came knocking at his door for their money. He couldn’t ask his wife for more. There wasn’t that much left in her account to meet what he owed. And anyway, the less she knew about it the better.
With all her family’s money, Janice had never had a head for business. It was doubtful she’d ever read a bank statement.
In the beginning, when they’d first met in their mid-twenties, she’d look gorgeous. With a pair of tits to die for and a cute bum, she was ‘sex-on-two-legs’ he’d tell his mates at the squash club. Now over the years, she’d put on weight and had become a sloth, lounging around the house watching television. She had one in every room, even took the portable to the bathroom and the swimming pool, weather permitting. They had little to talk about now, because she never watched the news or read a newspaper, which due to his current situation had become a blessing in disguise.
Important news to Janice was who Simon Cowell was dating or what Jerry Hall or Kate moss were wearing at the latest A-list celebrity party. The coffee table opposite the television was littered with old and current issues of OK and HELLO magazines. Donald couldn’t remember the last time they’d had an important conversation. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he looked forward to coming home from work.
It was much the same most evenings. When he’d got in from the office or late back from the golf club, Janice would be lying on the sofa like a beached whale in her shapeless one-piece looking at some rubbish on the television with a box of Black Magic or Ferrero Rocher near her elbow. She’d raise a hand to warn him to be quiet and not interrupt while she was watching and say,
‘Dinner’s in the microwave – give it three minutes.’ Then she’d pop another chocolate in her mouth, take a swig of wine and return her intent gaze to the screen.
Janice had never wanted children. In the early days he had, and then they’d both seen their friends’ homes transformed into crèches, filled with screaming sprogs and the smell of sick and poo and soiled nappies. On top of that, Janice used to say,
‘Having babies destroys your bloody sex life. If you don’t have a Caesarean, your vagina gets stretched and it never fully recovers. And if you do have a Caesarean, your stomach muscles never recover and you end up being potbellied when you’re older.’ This was rather ironic considering her pot-belly now.
Still, some of what she said had made sense, despite the occasional bit of grief he’d got from his mother about wanting to become a gran. Not any more, she was in a home now with dementia. Added to that, it wasn’t exactly a turn on either for a bloke to watch their bloody, slimy new-born being pulled out of their wife’s stretched twat.
Janice had maintained that most of her friends weren’t interested in sex after having kids. One in particular had read a book while her husband shagged her.
‘Babies? Not for me, thank you very much,’ she used to say.
Over the last few months, Donald had become increasingly depressed, not just by his financial situation. Coming home from work, he would sometimes take a detour along the wealthier roads. The light June evenings allowed him to see the tree-hidden separate estates displaying ten-bedroom mansions and sweeping driveways filled with Rolls Royces or Bentley Continentals; properties with games rooms and indoor swimming pools. He was one step below this. Just a while ago, it had been within his grasp. Now, as things stood, he’d be lucky to rent a rundown end-of-terrace in Colliers Wood.
That evening in his study, Donald flitted from one website to another on poisons, strangulation, blunt instrument attack, planned road accidents, electrocution, asphyxiation using a pillow, falling down the stairs or off a cliff or hiring a contract killer. He took another swig from his third can of lager, sat back and stroked the two-day stubble on his chin. Reaching for another handful of cashew nuts, he crunched them down quickly. His waistline indicated that cashews were his favourite along with pork scratchings.
Sporting a rear bald spot that he combed over, at five foot eight with a chubby face and just over fifteen stone in his shorts, Donald knew he wasn’t every woman’s dream. Still, he was only thirty-six years old and considered himself a bit of a catch.
Having drunk all that lager, Donald needed to pee. As he made his way along the landing, he could hear the Sony portable TV. At half past eight, Janice would be taking her usual bath and watching Saturday’s repeat of Britain’s Got Talent. She always perched the TV on a table at the foot of the bath. Many times he had told her to keep the door open if she had the television in there. It was dangerous if it came into contact with water or condensation. She had moaned at him to get a proper one fitted on the bathroom wall like some of her friends had. He’d said he’d get around to it.
As Donald passed the half-open door, she was up to her neck in bubbles on her mobile raving to Jill, one of her afternoon tea-in- Harrods companions. She was telling her how good the teenage boy was who was dancing to Singing in the Rain on the television. Donald cringed as Janice screeched with excitement and told her friend she had voted for the young lad last Saturday.
As he lifted the toilet seat and began relieving himself, a think bubble materialised in his head. It was of a smoking portable television bobbing up and down in water.
Of course, that was it, he thought; the perfect plan. Her friends knew she watched television in the bath. On this occasion, she must have had it too near the edge. He would be sobbing to the coroner, explaining that he’d warned her about the dangers. If only he’d had a proper wall TV fitted with all the safety features, she’d still be alive today.
Donald knew he would have to practise the distraught husband bit to appear convincing.
That evening, once she’d gone to bed, Donald opened up the life insurance policy. He double-checked the small print for accidents and negligence. They still paid out. Also, in his favour was the policy date. It was four years old. He’d discovered that most murders for life insurance took place within a year of the policy being taken out. He remembered from watching TV detective stories, it’s the first thing the police check, the more recent the policy, the stronger the motive.
Donald spent the next two weeks trying to hide his financial predicament. They would be looking into his business affairs if they thought there was even a possibility of foul play. He dummied-up some accounting sheets and hid anything to do with Laiki Bank. Then he moved some of his wife’s remaining money into the account of the PUTTING GLOBAL ADVERTISING AGENCY in order that it should look healthy.
Feeling excited and pleased with himself as he sat in his work office, he opened his leather-bound diary and for a while considered the dates. Then with a pencil, he lightly circled the following Tuesday. There was just one more thing; the laptop in his study at home. The clear browsing button didn’t clear everything. A forensic computer expert would find his perfect murder searches and porn. He would download anything useful onto a memory stick and then drop the laptop over Kingston-upon-Thames Bridge late one evening.
*
Tuesday had arrived. It was a quarter past eight and a warm, late June evening. Donald had checked the maker’s specifications to ensure there wasn’t a GFCI or RCD in the old portable circuitry to instantly shut off the power if it came into contact with water. Nevertheless, he had to have a backup if the television current wasn’t strong enough. Once he’d pushed it into the bath, he was on a point of no return. She would see him do it, so she’d have to die.
With his foot, Donald nudged the electric drill under his study desk. It was
an old type with a die-cast metal casing. He’d never got rid of it for some reason. It had lain forgotten at the bottom of an old tool-box he kept in the garage. In the early days when using it, he’d had a couple of shocks when the earth wire had come off the casing terminal. It had never been mended. If the television didn’t kill the fat bitch, then the Black and Decker would.
Donald listened out. From the shouting and yelling going on, he knew she must be watching the Jerry Springer Show. One of her favourites; Donald raised himself and took a deep breath. He put on a pair of thick rubber gloves. This was it then, no going back.
Picking up the electric drill, his back-up plan in case the portable failed, Donald quietly moved onto the landing until he came to the same twin socket that shared the portable television plug. Donald pushed in the plug for the drill and tiptoed the short distance to the half-open bathroom door. He carefully peaked through the crack. There she was, with an ice bucket on the side and a box of chocolate truffles within reach. The portable was at the foot of the bath. Janice took a slurp of wine and, along with the rest of the studio audience, booed at the overweight husband who’d been caught two-timing his pregnant wife.
Donald knew the time had come. He’d practised the 999 call over and over again. Shocked and distraught with a hint of hysteria. And then, when the ambulance and police arrived, the sobbing, followed soon after by a gaunt zombie look of someone being in shock. He had to get it just right. They would be looking and listening for a hint of foul play, playing back his phone call, looking at his immediate reactions. That was how the police caught killers - first reactions. If they weren’t satisfied then they would delve deeper. Donald did not want them delving deeper.
He was ready. Donald braced himself. He didn’t want to look into her face while he was doing it. They had been close once, possibly even in love, he couldn’t remember. However, she wasn’t going to get any compensation or brownie points for old time sake’s. This was a one-way ticket without any stops to get off at and admire the scenery.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 15