Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  There is something forbidden about washing away blood. He feels like a murderer, trying desperately to hide his own guilt; he didn’t do anything wrong … except buy her the bottles. That had been a mistake, but he didn’t force her to drink it all. Shame and guilt propels him to keep scrubbing at the hand smears until even the cheap green paint starts flaking off. They can’t keep going on like this. The image of Anne-Marie, lying bleeding at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him with those pleading eyes, flashes into his mind. Maybe he will get lucky this time, maybe they will keep her at the hospital for a few days. Maybe he will get very lucky and they will keep her there for a long time. Maybe they will fix whatever is wrong with her. Maybe the old Anne-Marie will be the one who comes home this time. Just keep telling yourself that you love her and you can still be happy together, he thinks. She really does need me, he lies to himself, I can’t leave her.

  Until death do they part.

  Chapter Four

  Anne-Marie is asleep when Daniel arrives at the hospital, or at least she is pretending to be. Peter is there too but not Sherri, thankfully. Peter must still be keeping her in the dark. Peter avoids looking at him, pretending he didn’t hear Daniel plod in. Daniels wonders how long he has been here and what kind of lies Anne-Marie has already told him.

  Perhaps he is holding his breath, waiting for either a confrontation or an apology. This is not really the place for another argument. Not that anyone would hear them over the drunken singing, the crying and the medical staff shouting. The hospital was just like being at home, right down to the stench of bleach.

  “I am sorry I snapped at you,” Daniel murmurs, not really meaning it. “I’m just really tired. Anne-Marie woke me up at four this morning.” He rubs his eyes in an exaggerated movement. He wants to say more, wants Peter to realise how hard it is to live with Anne-Marie, how much he just wanted a relaxing day off. How much he hates feeling like a wuss just saying the word “sorry” and how Peter should be grateful he is making an effort. But Daniel is a coward and leaves it at that.

  Peter murmurs something vaguely comforting. Daniel takes this as encouragement to take the seat opposite and they sit in silence, listening to the hum of the hospital, the bleeps, the drunks’ encore and Anne-Marie’s steady breathing. It is a fragile, begrudging peace in the midst of chaos.

  Why did he come here? Was it still the misguided thought that he could save their marriage? Was he still playing the long-suffering but heroic husband? Was it her blood? The belief that he could still fix all of this? His hands still reek of bleach, thankfully masked from Peter by the other hospital smells. It wasn’t easy getting the smeared blood off the walls. He would make a good murderer now though, he thinks darkly, if he could learn how to cope with the guilt. He has done a good job of cleaning up everything, no one will be able to tell. He needed to repaint the hallway anyway, something he will do when Anne-Marie is not around to complain about the fumes.

  Peter is quiet, too quiet. Probably thinking about what he is going to tell Sherri. There isn’t much left for them to talk about anyway. They can’t talk any more about the accident without getting angry. They can’t talk recovery options in case Anne-Marie wakes up. Silence is for the best. Daniel can’t talk about his clean-up operation since Peter probably shouldn’t know about that. He can’t talk about what he found in Anne-Marie’s room either: bottles, lots and lots of bottles, all empty. Daniel is going to have to make a lot of trips to the glass recycling when he gets back. So many empties and he knows he didn’t buy them all. He idly wondered why alcoholics in films always have scores of full bottles to empty into the sink? With Anne-Marie, the bottles are always empty. That was the problem, she couldn’t keep anything in stock.

  Thankfully they are not discharging Anne-Marie tonight; he has time to finish cleaning up the blood and glass in her room, maybe he will even wipe away the thick layers of dust. Anne-Marie won’t appreciate that, no, she will probably accuse him of snooping but Sherri will insist on visiting and she can’t see the room in that state. Maybe he should have left it all as evidence, or taken pictures to show the nurses so they knew exactly what they are dealing with.

  Daniel sighs and studies his wife. Is she really asleep or does she just not want to talk to them? To him, she probably still doesn’t want to talk to him. He hopes she is really sleeping; she doesn’t look good under the hospital lights. Too thin, too brittle, too washed out. Is her skin slightly yellow or is it just the light? Daniel looks up to see Peter studying him closely. Ah shit. He hopes his face hadn’t given off any hint of disgust. Another arrow for Peter to use. If only Anne-Marie would wake up, that would defuse the pit of awkwardness.

  Who is he kidding, she is the queen of awkwardness. It is going to be a long hour if she doesn’t wake up. A long, tension-building hour.

  They sit in silence, occasionally one of them thinks about speaking but then decides against it. Eventually, Daniel fumbles around with his wallet quietly and then hesitatingly passes Peter a few notes. “Sorry I left you with the bill, this should cover it.” More than cover it, maybe even cover some of the notes she took from Peter’s wallet before she was caught. Peter knows he didn’t miscount, despite Sherri’s reasonings.

  Peter accepts with a nod. It’s best to forget about it. Peter hadn’t been that upset anyway, it meant that he could eat in peace and actually enjoy his food. Peter doesn’t mind the silence either, he is tired of trying to maintain the illusion that he is friends with Daniel. Eventually the two men rise from their chairs as if they are squaring for a fight. Loser wins Anne-Marie perhaps – that would be Daniel, he never wins anything. Daniel breaks eye contact first, turns away, narrowly missing a nurse. Without looking, Daniel knows Peter will have that cruel Fowler smile on his lips. He briskly mutters goodnight and doesn’t look back.

  Anne-Marie could happily sleep for ever but they won’t let her. As soon as she wakes up, just as she is picking away at a breakfast tray, the nurses tell her that they are coming.

  “Just a few questions for you, dear.” She didn’t expect them to act this quickly. She has seen them before and doesn’t want to see them again. They had so many questions before, so many silent threats. It will just be the same dance again. Why can’t they leave her alone? She just wants to go back to sleep.

  When they arrive, they are more obnoxious than she expects and she knows immediately that she doesn’t want to talk to them. She knows she has to but she is not confiding in them. She doesn’t need their help. Where is Daniel? Why isn’t he here?

  They encourage her to go with them into a private room. It is all forced smiles, polite conversation. Do they really think she is fooled by any of their fake attempts to “get to know her better?” That they are on her side? That she would think of them as friends?

  It would be easier to cope if she had a drink. Not that they will give her one. The nurses have given her some kind of medication that makes her feel airy, making it hard to think. She hopes it will wear off soon, she needs to focus her thoughts. It is not going to be easy to fool them again.

  One of them smiles kindly and points to the seat furthest from the door. “Why don’t you sit down there, sweetheart?”

  She smiles back but inwardly fumes. “Sweetheart?” She hates all endearments, but sweetheart is particularly sickening. She doesn’t trust them, she has seen more genuine smiles from politicians. She has to keep smiling, smiling like hooks are pulling up the corners of her cheeks. She has to get out, she can’t spend her days locked in one-to-ones with these people.

  When she was younger, she learned how to cry on command, mainly to get Peter into trouble. It is a skill she has had much use for over the years and it’s always perfect for situations like these. It is always good to add a tear or two when you are pretending to bare your soul and confess that you have let your drinking get out of control, that she didn’t mean to but she has realised now how, sob, bad it had got and she won’t, sob, let it get that bad again.

  She c
an’t overdo it though, she has to keep it believable. These ones look like they won’t be swayed easily. Even though they appear friendly, well they have to, no one would to talk to them if they didn’t. They always appear to be non-threatening, until after the first chair is thrown. It’s all a game, the bullshit game.

  She readjusts her face, trying to look like she has been paying attention. They have been babbling on about how all her answers are confidential, no one is in trouble here, trying to be all reassuring and nice. She nods thoughtfully. She discovered last time that they don’t expect her to lie, and she will use this to her full advantage. They think she is at rock bottom and desperate, always a truth-telling situation. But she is fine, thank you, and she just wants to go home.

  “I would like to ask you some questions about your drinking habits within the last year.” She hasn’t been drinking that much or that long. “I would like you to be as honest as possible.”

  Got to keep that face neutral. She is fighting the urge to roll her eyes and snort. Like they are really that concerned, this is just a job to them, they don’t care about her at all.

  “By alcohol consumption, we do mean all wine, beer, cider and spirit-based drinks.”

  Well, duh. Like she would actually admit to drinking cider; nasty, weak stuff.

  “Do you have any questions before we start?”

  What’s the point to all this? Can I go home? Is that a comb-over? Why are you reading out the questions to me? Why can’t I just read them? Are you aware of how nasal your voice sounds? Do you not think that this is a waste of Daniel’s taxes? Anne-Marie gives what she hopes is the weak smile of a brave survivor and shakes her head.

  “How often do you have a drink containing alcohol?”

  “Oh, only a couple of times a month,” she lies and everyone in the room knows it. Every single goddamn day is the real answer and more often if she could.

  “How many units of alcohol do you drink on a typical day when you are drinking?”

  “Only a couple of glasses.” Then a couple more. Like anyone really pays attention to alcohol units.

  “How often have you had six or more units on a single occasion in the last year?”

  She has to pretend to think about that one. “I try not to do that, it is very bad for you. Though sometimes you just get carried away,” she says with what she hopes sounds like a light-hearted laugh. “Maybe about eight times in the past year.”

  Maybe every single day, unless Daniel stopped her. Did he put them up to this? What had Daniel told them? Sargent Sardonic probably relished telling them all about her, he just loves to debase her to an audience, loves to get all their attention and sympathy. He had probably given them notes and video footage. Anything to make himself look like the good guy; he wouldn’t miss a chance like this to bring her down.

  “How often during the last year have you found that you were not able to stop drinking once you had started?”

  “I have control over that, I can stop when I need to,” she tries to say assertively. Well, everyone has to stop when the bottle is empty.

  “How often during the last year have you failed to do what was normally expected from you because of drinking?”

  “Never,” she says proudly. This is true, no one expected anything from her any more.

  “How often during the last year have you needed an alcoholic drink in the morning to get yourself going after a heavy drinking session?”

  “Oh, I don’t drink in the morning.” Daniel better have kept his big mouth shut. She is going to make him pay for this and if they dare try and hold her here, well … she is just going to have to call her mother!

  “How often during the last year have you had a feeling of guilt or remorse after drinking?”

  “Only after this happened.” She holds up her bandaged hand. She can’t ignore this particular elephant in the room. She thought it would be best if she brought it up first, showed willingness to talk about it. “I got a little too carried away.” She has ruined their flow now, they were going to bring this up later, as proof she was lying. Do they now question her further on last night or continue with their questionnaire? Which opportunity should they miss? These people are robots. They have to keep to a certain order but they surprise her slightly by biting the bait and asking:

  “In your own words, can you tell us what happened?” Big mistake, she has practised for this one.

  “I drank a little too much and accidentally broke a bottle.” Anne-Marie starts faking the tears of remorse “It was such a stupid thing to do, I cut myself trying to pick up the shards and went downstairs to get a plaster.” It was that fucking plaster that got her into this mess. “And I tripped on the last step. It was such a silly thing to do. It won’t happen again,” she assures through the tears. That’s what they want to hear the most, isn’t it? That’s what Daniel and Peter will want to hear: “It won’t happen again”, and what is that other phrase she needs to use? Oh yes: “I promise.”

  She scores 12 points on her Alcohol Use Disorders Identification Test. Had she been answering a little more truthfully then it would be closer to 33 points. Had she been more honest then counselling and other help would have followed along with concerned monitoring.

  But instead they can only tell her that she is in a danger zone and caution her on the dangers of drinking. They can’t do anything else other than send her home with a sternly worded pamphlet – a pamphlet that Daniel sees her stuff into the bin as she leaves.

  She is looking better though. The nurses had convinced her to wash and de-knot her hair and she is finally wearing clean clothes. She is looking better than she has in weeks, despite the bruises and large bandage. She gives Daniel a smile as she climbs in the car, and he finds himself smiling fondly back.

  Maybe this time …

  Chapter Five

  Anne-Marie has been wearing the same faded grey pyjamas since Tuesday; not last Tuesday or the Tuesday before, but over a month ago last Tuesday. She is barely wearing them anyway: she has lost so much weight, they hang loosely off her scraggly frame. She is vaguely aware that she smells. She knows her hair is in dire need of a wash and she has split ends on her split ends but she just can’t bring herself to give a flying fuck. Nothing matters, none of this has ever mattered to her. What is important is that she has a drink in her hands. Danny has left her! How could he leave her now? After all they have been through? She didn’t even do anything! She is going to tell her mother! Daniel was so angry with her and she didn’t do anything and certainly didn’t deserve it. He always seems to be angry with her these days, for no good reason, so what does it matter? She is dimly aware that her hands hurt, so do her feet, but can’t think what she did this time. She knows Daniel hurt her but that’s not it.

  But what does it matter? Did anything really matter? Maybe things will matter again tomorrow but today, right here and now, the only thing that matters is having another drink. Daniel didn’t matter, he is always snapping at her, yelling at her, such a wanker. He hurt her hands. Wait ’til she tells her mother.

  Was that the door? Anne-Marie tries to stop crying, breathes in deep, trembling breaths. Danny? No one else would dare come in, it must be Danny. Danny must have come back to yell at her some more. Maybe she should apologise before he starts. She knows she did something stupid but can’t remember what. It wasn’t her fault. She probably should apologise anyway. Daniel is one for holding stupid, petty grudges. She will apologise but she is not sorry. She doesn’t know if she can get the words out either but he will understand, he has to understand. She will apologise, even though he hurt her! She takes another gulp and firmly sets the bottle down, then unsteadily gets to her feet. She can hear the thud of feet slowly climbing the stairs. She freezes slightly, Danny’s footsteps sound too quiet, too calm, he was so angry before. What is he going to do? She doesn’t want Danny to leave, like her father did. She is not going to let him go that easily, not without a fight. Danny is hers. Hers alone.

  “Danny
?” she calls, staggering out into the hallway.

  “What happened?” a voice answers.

  “None of your bussssiness …”

  Wrong answer bitch.

  Chapter Six

  DCI Sam Colvin stands outside the Mills’ home. The sounds of a child crying echoes down the empty street. Curtains are twitching. She ignores this and looks instead at the Mills’ front garden. It is covered in paving stones, and the only plants are weeds growing out from the cracks. From a police perspective, this is annoying, no evidence to indicate an intruder had been here, no footprints trodden in the mud beneath their windows, no flora traces since there is no flora. Only thing to check is the windows, for signs of forced entry. Moving closer, Colvin can see only a thin layer of grime covering the windows on the outside – they haven’t been cleaned in a long time. They haven’t recently been touched by any human hands either, no fingerprints and no forced entry. A voile curtain stops her and any curious bystanders from seeing inside the house from here.

  Colvin knocks on the front door gently and is met by an impatient police officer on the other side and a waft of something strong.

  “Forensics have finished.” Finished and cleared out. What kept you? his tone of voice implies.

  Colvin nods but still carefully strides onto the stepping plates. She knows the forensics team would have already spent hours going through the house, taking digital photos, which are already waiting at Colvin’s desk, lifting footprints, fingerprints and bagging anything of interest, but there is another reason she doesn’t want to step on the floor.