From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  Donald stiffened, swallowed hard and then burst in.

  As the television hit the bath water, she raised one arm in shock and yelled. She began to get up. Donald was looking at the bath water waiting for a white flash. Nothing was happening. He pushed her head down and then her shoulders. Realising he could be electrocuted if the water came over the gloves, he took his hands out; still no flash or bang.

  Janice was trying to get up again. She had managed to get into a crouching position and was shouting,

  ‘What are you doing, are you mad?’

  Donald hesitated. If she got out of the bath, it would be too late. Janice raised herself and shouted again,

  ‘Are you trying to kill me, you bastard…?’ One foot was already on the edge of the bath. Then the television puffed some black smoke and sparks. Janice screamed as the amps surged through her. She was shaking and twitching all over.

  He pushed her back and got her head under the water and then he got zapped when his wrist got wet. He didn’t have much time. Donald knew the current wasn’t strong enough. He dashed outside and picked up the electric drill. He switched it on and it whirred into life. Then he realised the trigger lock button was missing. Just the pin inside remained. Probably broken off through wear over the years. ‘Fuck! - Fuck! – Fuck!’ How the hell do you keep the thing going? Then inspiration took over: the biro in his top pocket. Donald frantically squeezed the trigger and then jiggled the Biro pointed end into the hole to push the pin. It clicked and he released the trigger. It was still running.

  He dashed back in to see her up again ready to swing one leg over the rim. She stopped and looked at him. She wasn’t shaking anymore. The current must have cut out. Donald froze. She was mouthing something at him. He couldn’t hear - a combination of fear and the drill screaming away at two thousand revolutions a minute. Her face was contorted with so much anger.

  Donald tossed the drill and watched in horror. Immediately there was a huge white flash and Janice collapsed twitching. The top of her head began to smoke and sizzle while some hair caught alight. The eyes remained open, staring at him while smoke wafted from her gaping mouth and ears. Then her head slid under the water.

  Her body carried on vibrating until Donald pulled the drill plug out; making sure to keep the television one in place. It was deathly quiet as he entered the bathroom again. He stood looking at her, shaking all over. He put a fist to his mouth and bit his knuckles.

  ‘Dear God, what have I done?,’ Donald said to himself. Then he vomited in the sink and heaved again. He took a deep breath. ‘Keep calm - keep calm. Can’t afford to fuck-up now.’

  Suddenly, his heart thumped with fear at the sound of bubbles rising to the surface. He jerked round and panic instantly set in. Dear God, she was still alive. Then he realised it must have been the last of the air in her chest.

  Donald surveyed the scene.

  ‘Now plan B he whispered.’

  He removed the drill from the bath. Then he lifted one of her legs and gathering some slack, he wrapped the plug cord of the television around her ankle, to look as though she had tripped and dragged it off the table getting in. Next, he got a packet of her bath salts and emptied three-quarters of them into the water. He used his hand to stir them around evenly. Bath salts, he’d read, increase electrical conductivity no end. Hopefully that would dispel any doubts that the current from the portable wasn’t strong enough to kill her.

  Donald stood back. He looked around carefully for anything incriminating. Satisfied, he made his way down stairs to the garage to hide the drill and the rubber gloves.

  *

  It had gone like clockwork. Even the policeman had put his arm around his shoulders to try and console him when they had arrived on his emergency call.

  The clincher had been the cord around Janice’s ankle. He’d thought of that touch last thing. When they had drained the bath, the paramedic and the police officer had gasped and then police constable, Perry, had said, ‘Jesus, she must have dragged it in with her.’

  That had set the scene. Afterwards, it was a good show of tear wiping at the Coroner’s inquest with an accidental death verdict. This was followed by relatives supporting him at the funeral, and his not forgetting to collapse a couple of times.

  Initially, in the first week, there had been an interview with a Detective Inspector Royston, and a Detective Constable Prichard at Weybridge Police Station in the High Street. They had discretely asked him for some recent photographs of his wife. Due to her severe skin injuries, they would be for the police mortician to make her look presentable after the autopsy. At this, Donald had broken down and was given a cup of tea and a biscuit while he composed himself.

  And then over the next three months, Donald made sure to show copious quantities of mourning, incurring much sympathy from everyone while downing too much alcohol amongst friends and frequently being put up on their sofa overnight.

  There had been a couple of genuine nightmares involving a steaming Janice rising from the bathtub with her hair on fire and her blackened face sizzling. They had seemed so real; he had had to go to the bathroom to double check.

  Finally, after a respectful length of time, Donald was being told to move on with his life. Nothing can bring her back. You’ve got to get out more. One or two had suggested fixing him up with a blind date just for a night out. Donald had thanked them but said his grief was still too much.

  Meanwhile, alone in his study he checked his investment account online. It had taken five weeks for the life insurance cheque to come through. The balance stated: £1,929,531 including his deceased wife’s remaining money. After paying off his creditors, there would be more than enough to retire on. Maybe he would keep on the existing house or possibly downsize to make more money. The need to move up-market to a mansion with a bigger swimming pool didn’t seem to bother him now. Now, he could go for a trek around the world to all those far-flung places; take up yachting, more golf lessons, and learn how to fly a helicopter.

  Somehow, Janice’s death had made him prioritise his life more. Put things in perspective. Life is for living, not being envious of other people’s wealth.

  Donald sat back smiling and said to the screen, ‘

  Who’s a lucky boy then?’

  He felt good and he felt smug as he popped a handful of cashews into his mouth and crunched on them.

  *

  Donald Putting had never used a dating agency before. Granted, he had used the odd prostitute over the years. That was mostly from contact calling cards left around the public phone boxes where he worked. However, a dating agency provided him with a challenge.

  As he clicked the computer screen, he was swamped by so many agencies. MATCH MAKERS for busy professionals. LET’S GET TOGETHER for those that want to find that special partner. MUTUAL ATTRACTION for people with professional lifestyles. EXCLUSIVE PARTNERS will discreetly, safely and efficiently find the perfect partner for you.

  Donald sat back. He reached for another handful of cashew nuts and crunched them down quickly. He flitted through the teaser photos each site put up. There were indeed some beautiful women available on these dating sites. Donald felt confident that with his new-found wealth, he wouldn’t have any trouble pulling one. He knew he could do better than the Roxy’s, Candy’s and Jades he visited from time to time, even though they told him he was a great fuck; a stallion in fact. One of them had called him Mr Rimrod. They had moaned and shuddered on cue as he had launched himself on top wearing only his vest and socks. Then, as he had paid the one hundred pounds, he was swamped with their praises of his sexual prowess.

  After another twenty-minutes, Donald had decided. EXCLUSIVE PARTNERS, which not only had a selection of better looking women in their sample of clients, they also had the cheapest signing-on fee of five hundred pounds for membership.

  After he had completed the PAYPAL transaction, immediately Donald went to work on his profile page. He had found and uploaded what he consid
ered a good picture of himself. It was a three-year old passport photo taken at a time he’d been on a diet and had had a thinner-looking face. He had added some blurb about being a successful advertising executive with prestigious offices in Mayfair, owning his own five-bedroom house on an exclusive private estate in Weybridge and currently driving a 911 Carrera 4 Porsche. This, in fact, was true. He said he was looking for a fun-loving soul mate with likewise tastes in modern jazz, Japanese food, golf and Caribbean holidays.

  Finally, after tweaking here and there, he launched his profile onto the unsuspecting world of twenty-five to thirty-five-year-old prospective totty, as he would joke later telling friends at the local wine bar.

  Most evenings after work and at weekends, Donald was coming out of himself and beginning to socialise with his Covent Garden restaurant friends. Saturday afternoons were either taken up with golf or his new found hobby of Japanese gourmet cooking classes held at a London college.

  Donald had been upfront to his friends about joining a dating web site. It was just for a laugh he’d told them, even though it had cost him five hundred pounds.

  ‘Dare say some sex-starved mature ones will be craving for it,’ he’d joked with the lads. ‘I might even get lucky with some rich old biddy who’ll use me as her toy boy, then pop her clogs and leave me all her money.’ They laughed and ribbed him, but secretly, Donald was looking forward to the challenge. It would make a change from the paid sex on-tap he was used to. He didn’t mind the rejection that came with trying to pull for a one-night stand or more. He’d had his fair share over the years, unbeknown to Janice, when he had tried out his chat-up line in clubs and wine bars and they politely smiled and moved on to talk to some other friends.

  It was Tuesday evening that he first spotted her while trolling through the dating website. God, she looked gorgeous. Short, black, boyish hair-style with a petite, white, Audrey Hepburn face. A China doll came to mind as Donald read her profile: Didi Harrison was aged 32 years. A financial systems analyst with interests in Chinese cooking, jazz and golf. Donald couldn’t believe his luck. A near-perfect match in music and hobbies.

  The only thing now was, would a very attractive woman like this be interested in him once she had seen his photo? There was only one way to find out. Donald sent Didi his introductory email aiming for a possible meet-up and crossed his fingers.

  A day later, back came the reply. Donald couldn’t believe his luck. She was looking for a companion with likewise interests for a relationship and would be glad to meet for drinks and dinner.

  *

  It was half past eight and a perfect, warm July evening. Donald had chosen the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel for drinks and from there; they would eat in the Grill Room. He fidgeted and looked at his watch for the third time. It had just turned 8.35 pm. He was wondering whether she had had another look at his profile photo and decided against it and that maybe she could do better. With her looks, she had plenty of choice. Then as he glanced at the entrance again, a voice behind him said,

  ‘Is it Donald?’

  He spun round and there she was, a vision that took his breath away. She was smiling at him just like she was in her picture. This petite, pretty thing in an expensive-looking tight leather jacket with figure hugging slacks and matching shoulder bag. Donald got up and shook her hand nervously. He was gobsmacked. She looked even better than her photo. God knows what she must have thought of him on first appearance. However, her smile never slipped a notch, unlike some other blind dates he’d been on.

  After the usual introductory pleasantries, Donald asked her what she would like to drink.

  ‘Whatever you’re having,’ she replied.

  Donald relaxed a little. He wanted to enjoy tonight. Didn’t want someone to be drinking non-alcoholic and looking on while he bashed the wine.

  ‘I’m on Sancerre,’ he said.

  ‘My favourite,’ Didi beamed.

  Within forty minutes, the body language signs were looking good. They were leaning into each other as they gabbled away about jazz, golf and Chinese cooking - interspersed by short bursts of laughter, joking, mock seriousness, and she had a nice habit of touching his arm from time to time in conversation. Donald liked that. It made him tingle. The thought of her touching his bare body made him even more excited.

  The waiter appeared and informed them their table was ready.

  As they were led across the Grill Room, Donald felt a sense of pride. He was on top of the world. About to dine at a top fashionable restaurant with a trophy date that every guy was admiring as they walked past.

  It was a corner table just as Donald had requested in his booking. Being an evening sitting, the lights were seductively dimmed and so the waiter lit the centrepiece candelabra.

  Donald’s head was swimming. It was so romantic. He took the plunge, reached across and grabbed Didi’s hand.

  ‘I hope you enjoy the meal tonight whatever you order.’

  ‘She smiled at him and returned the squeeze.

  ‘I’m sure I will, Don.’

  Don, she called me Don, he thought. Only close friends called him Don. He glowed inwardly.

  For starters, they both had exquisite aspic of foie gras with leeks and truffles followed by rack of lamb for him while she had the sole with asparagus spears and sauté potatoes.

  Donald was itching to pick up his rack of lamb and nibble it clean, especially the crispy fat along the back of the bone. At home or out with the lads in a restaurant after drinking, he would have done so. Using his knife, he carefully trimmed off as much as he could without persevering with it for too long, as though he hadn’t eaten for a fortnight. While attempting this, his knife slipped a couple of times causing an embarrassing clink on the fine bone china plate.

  Suddenly, Didi reached across and picked up one of his fresh cutlets. She leaned towards him and slowly and seductively began to bite off the lamb. He picked up a cutlet and did the same. For a laugh they linked arms, much to the attention of surrounding tables, and nibbled their own cutlet looking into each other’s eyes. At that, they got the giggles and collapsed with laughter.

  He couldn’t believe he was having so much fun tonight. Donald didn’t bother with the waiter. He reached for the bottle and poured them both another glass of the wonderful Sancerre. Then he took her hand and smiled at her. She squeezed his and looked admiringly into his eyes.

  Was this really happening, he wondered? Was this beautiful thing in front of him actually interested in him, Donald Putting? She certainly was giving him all the vibes.

  The dessert came next. He had the exotic fruit soufflé while Didi went for the lemon tart with raspberries and meringue. They talked and laughed some more, finishing off the meal with brandies and coffee.

  When it came to the bill, a mere two hundred and eight pounds for the two, she insisted on paying her half. Donald couldn’t believe it and amusingly tried to push her hand back that was clutching her platinum gold card. However, Didi thrust it onto the waiter’s silver tray with instructions to split the cost.

  He couldn’t believe her generosity. No first date had ever paid their way in his experience. Not even Janice when they were dating had ever dipped her hand into her purse.

  In the taxi back to her flat in St Johns Wood, they talked as though they had known each other for years. Never had he felt so relaxed and happy as well as so horny for a long time. The call girls didn’t count. That was mechanical sex, driven by getting his money’s worth.

  While the cabby waited, Donald hovered with her outside the swing-doors of a posh reception area with a twenty-four hour concierge. Her apartment was on the fourth floor. It was clear he wasn’t going to get invited up for some first night rumpy-pumpy. Still, he was glad in a way. He respected her more for it.

  ‘I would love to see you again, Didi.’

  He pressed a business card with his mobile number into her hand and she reciprocated, diving into her shoulder bag and offering him h
er card with contact details.

  ‘I’d very much like to see you again, Don.’ Didi hovered expectantly.

  ‘How about coming to the Jazz Bar in Dean Street with me on Saturday evening? They’ve got a great resident quartet playing and we can have supper there.’

  ‘I’d love too.’

  ‘I’ll book us a table then? Pick you up say around quarter to eight?’ He leaned forward and gave her a respectable peck on the cheek. She was wearing Creed perfume, his favourite.

  ‘That’ll be great, Don. Come in and ask reception to ring the buzzer for apartment seventeen, Didi Harrington, and I’ll be down.’

  Donald watched her lovely, cute bum disappear through the swing doors. Jesus, did he feel randy at that moment. He climbed back into the taxi slightly let down but with a satisfied smile, knowing he had another date with her and also, he had the porn channel to fall back on.

  *

  When he met her at reception, she was wearing a tight-fitting soft leather trouser suit with matching shoes and a Gucci handbag. Dear God, she looked fantastic. It had only been four days since they last met and she looked more stunning.

  Donald was wearing his designer loafers and Armani jeans with a Ralph Lauren casual zip jacket. He was sporting his Rolex Oyster and made sure she saw it when he shook her hand.

  ‘You look fantastic, Didi.’ He beamed at her.

  She put one hand on her hip and said through the side of her mouth,

  ‘Yer don’t look too bad yerself, Donny boy. Judy – Judy – Judy.

  Her impersonation of Cary Grant sent him into fits of laughter.

  ‘I’m not only taking out a stunner but an impersonator as well,’ he joked as they climbed into the waiting taxi. ‘What else can you do? Don’t tell me. Play the trumpet or the saxophone?’

  ‘I wish, Don. Wouldn’t it be great to play like some of those jazz musicians? In fact, to be really good at something, you know, better than the run-of-the-mill. You must have wanted that at times, surely? To be head and shoulders above the rest at golf on the tour or running your own Michelin star Chinese restaurant?’