Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  They rarely are to be fair. However, in this death, there are too many uncertainties. The pathology team are fairly sure she was alive when she fell, but they are unsure of how aware or conscious she was, given the very high levels of alcohol in her blood stream. The toxicologist said that she had around 275 mg of alcohol per 100 ml, legal drink driving limit being 80 mg.

  They know the cause of death – a subdural haematoma – they know that a force hit Anne-Marie Mills’ head so hard, her brain expanded within her skull. She survived the fall for anything between a few minutes to an hour but it is unlikely that she ever regained consciousness.

  Perhaps the cause of death should be alcohol. Even if she had not hit the stairs, she was still on her way to becoming very sick. Another drink or three, and it is possible she would have slipped into a coma anyway, would still be lying on the autopsy table. Cause of death being respiratory paralysis. The alcohol contributed in a different way too, her long-term, heavy drinking meant her brain’s blood vessels had become frailer, more vulnerable, easier to burst. Without the alcohol abuse, she might have had a slightly better chance of survival.

  Some of her injuries are consistent with a fall down the stairs, others were not. More bruises had appeared once the lividity settled. Definite hand prints appeared across her chest, considerable force had been applied there, resulting in a cracked sternum, however these bruises are consistent with the bruises caused by CPR attempts. Someone had put a lot of effort into trying to restart her heart.

  The pathologist had also noted the condition of Mrs Mills’ feet, they had spent a long time removing shards of glass and granite out of the dirty skin. The constantly barefooted Mrs Mills had picked up so much stray matter and infections without feeling a thing.

  The mortuary technicians had checked Anne-Marie Mills one last time before releasing her body. As suspected, more bruises had become visible. Not just the ones across her chest from the attempted CPR, there was more bruising on her shoulders and legs, all worth noting but nothing conclusive. There was nothing that could be clearly identified as a hand or finger print. The technicians had photographed the new bruises anyway. This may be the last time they have access to her body, so everything must be recorded carefully, just in case. They signed the documents to release her body, minus a few samples.

  Daniel thinks that it is finally over. He has spent days in police custody answering the same questions over and over again, until he was on the brink of tearing out his remaining hair, screaming, “What the hell do you want from me?” He didn’t know why the officers continued over and over to try and break him. Didn’t they know that after so many years of being married to Anne-Marie, he was already a broken man? Finally, they told him he was free to go, but he couldn’t go home. They were still looking for “evidence” in the house. “What evidence?” he asked worriedly, but received no answer.

  When Daniel left the police station, he didn’t know where to go, who he could stay with. Not Peter or Sherri, that was for certain. He knew better than to even ask. His own parents were thankfully long dead, no brothers or sisters, no close family. He just had Anne-Marie: now what he has is not worth thinking about.

  Unable to think of anything else, he has spent the last few days in a cheap hotel, alone, not knowing quite what to do. He pretended he was on holiday, getting up late, eating too much for breakfast, then spending his days watching television in his room, always just waiting, waiting for something to happen. What happens now, he asks himself, is she really gone? He shouldn’t have left her. He should have left her sooner. What does he do now? What is taking them so long with his house? Why can’t he go home? He never wants to go home. He tries not to think about his wife or their last argument but it replays over and over in his mind. He remembers little details that he didn’t tell the police officers. He thinks about her just lying there, at the bottom of the stairs, and regrets his last words, the ones that ended in the word “bitch”. He wants to say he is sorry.

  Finally he has the call saying he can go home. He has been advised, first, to use his home insurance to pay for a cleaner, a specialist cleaner! Like he is made of money! The idea is tempting at first, but then he thinks of the increase in premiums, the hassle, the cleaners joyfully describing the state of the house to anyone, neighbours – like he wants to give more fodder to people like Lying Penny. No, he has spent enough time cleaning up after his wife. This time won’t be any different … except this is the last time. How bad could it be? He didn’t notice much damage before … hopefully she hadn’t smeared hand prints into the wall like last time. Those had been an absolute bitch to get off … no, it won’t be as bad as last time, he could do this. No point in wasting any more money.

  He is given back his house key and his mobile phone. His clothes are still being kept as “evidence”. His favourite jeans! He should have protested more but the female officer, Colvin, was giving him an I-will-get-you look, whilst Grimm continued his good cop routine, which fools nobody. He can tell they both think he is guilty, that it’s not over. He is not guilty, he really is not. They can stop looking at him like that! Not guilty!

  He has to leave the police station quickly before he says something he will regret. Outside and into a waiting taxi, no Peter to take him home this time. He hasn’t spoken to Peter or Sherri yet, doesn’t want to either. No doubt they blame him, people like to blame him. He notices the curtains twitching as the taxi pulls in front of his house. He takes a deep breath. They all know, don’t they? What have they been told? What are they going to do? Fear grips him tightly, he thinks about turning around, going back to the cheap hotel, just abandoning this life. But the taxi is already leaving. With a weary sigh, he fumbles for his house keys. He might as well see how bad the damage is. He pauses, enjoying the sunshine of another hot sunny day. At least he is not in prison. He would be if Colvin or Sherri got their way. Daniel steadies his hand on the door knob, removing the Do not cross police tape guiltily even though they said he could. He is expecting his wife to be on the other side, readying herself to shout, “Surprise!” Anne-Marie always did like to take a joke too far.

  He is assaulted instead by an overwhelming stench. What remained of his wife has congealed at the foot of the stairs, soaking into the hallway floor tiles, the stair carpet. He covers his face with a handkerchief. Home sweet home. It’s worse than before, a lot worse than he was expecting, but he can still do this. He needs to do this quickly before anyone sees it. Just like before, they can’t see this. Sherri can’t see this. Daniel knows he is a dead man walking when it comes to Sherri, but if she saw this, he would be a dead man hanging. No, he has to do this, quickly and alone, before they start ringing the doorbell with their “Just checking you are OK.” He plods into the kitchen, opens up the windows and the back door. Something smells rotten in here too.

  He fills the bucket with lemon-scented bleach mixed with hot water, easing into the old routine. Flicking on the radio for company, talk radio this time, he can’t bear the thought of love songs right now, he returns to the hallway, his hands shaking as he pushes the mop down with a splat. He can do this, he is a big boy now.

  The water is bloody and useless within seconds, the smell growing stronger. He keeps emptying and refilling the bucket, watching his wife’s blood swirl down the drain, feeling nothing except that he is getting nowhere. This is the last time, he reassures himself, but that just makes it worse. The house is too hot and the smell is everywhere. He keeps mopping, sweating, tears running down his face. He fills the bucket, mops more, dumps unrecognisable objects into the bin, refills the bucket and mops again until his back aches.

  Trust Anne-Marie to die in such a messy way, a burden even after the end. Trust her to do this to him. No, it wasn’t her fault, it was no one’s fault, it was his fault, no it was just an accident, a stupid accident, just like before. It takes over an hour before the carpet starts to look better. It still smells, an overpowering fight of blood and lemon, but it looks cleaner. Finally he can re
lax. He needs to take a carpet shampoo to the spots he can see on the stairs … and the unfortunate large stain on the last bottom step. Wearily, he starts to climb the stairs, ready for a nice hot shower, noting angrily the random holes that have been cut into the carpet.

  Oh, holy shit.

  Daniel stands for a moment, hopeless surveying the destruction. Oh god, what does he do now? He gazes at the criss-crosses of blood, ruining the hallway carpet, decorating the walls. He looks up in disbelief and catches glimpses of wrecked rooms through open doors.

  “Surprise, honey!” He can almost hear her caw. He knew there would be some damage, he had left her screaming and smashing … but this … he has nothing left … why did she do this to him?

  The only thing he can do is go and get a large bin bag. There is nothing left worth saving. No wonder the police had been so convinced he was guilty. He feels guilty just looking at the destruction. Why did she do this? He tries to think how he might have reacted coming home to this mess, with Anne-Marie still alive and giggling in her bedroom, or waiting in the hallway readying herself for another fight. He would have left or they would have had another screaming match, another fight. Why did she always have to provoke him like this? She was intent on driving him away, screaming into the night, leaving the same way her father had.

  Daniel steps into her room. For the first time, it hits him, along with the wave of putrid alcohol, that maybe this wasn’t another drunk accident. He sees with dismay the big Fuck you Daniel written on the wall. This was one big, drunken fuck you. She wrote it loud and proud for everyone to see. She just loved exposing him, knowing how much he hated it. Then she went to the stairs for the big swan dive, for everyone to see. Fuck you, Daniel.

  What did he do that was so bad that she was driven to this?

  Fuck you, Daniel, for not being there when she needed him? For not being able to gather her screaming and biting into his arms and make everything OK? Fuck you, Daniel, for not being able to help her? Fuck you, Daniel, for not forcing her to get help? Daniel is filled with overwhelming despair, what else could he have done? He hears the whispers of accusations pouring out of the walls. Accusations from Anne-Marie, accusations from his own mother. So many drunken whispers, laughs and cries. He hurries out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He can’t cope with this right now. She just had an accident, he murmurs comfortingly to himself. It was just an accident.

  He needs to get the room cleaned before anyone sees. Needs to get the whole house cleaned before anyone sees. He needs to get that message off before anyone sees. Who cares now? The police have already seen it. He can’t hide anything any more. It really is an ultimate fuck you, he has been named and completely shamed by his wife. What’s the point in hiding anything any more?

  He slumps wearily into his – their – his bedroom, finally accepting two things. One, that she is not going to jump out of somewhere and yell surprise. She is really dead. Two, it might not have been an accident. Something crunches under his foot. It is the blasted wedding photograph. He had left it on her bedside table, just as something to fill the space. The frame isn’t worth trying to fix, a cheap wedding gift from a cheap, distant relative. Should he keep the photo? They are not even smiling in this photo, there are better ones. He is not even sure why this one made it to a frame, while the rest were banished to the attic storage. Shit, he can’t cope with seeing Anne-Marie’s face right now, it makes him want to … cry? Even in these pictures, Anne-Marie’s eyes hold an accusing glare. The photo is crumpled, he screws it up further. Then he regrets screwing it up, no one is ever going to be able to take a picture of Daniel and Anne-Marie Mills together again.

  Bin bags, that’s what he needs, an Irish coffee and plenty of bin bags.

  It’s time to start again.

  He drags himself back downstairs, feet slapping uncomfortably against the lemony swamp at the bottom. Through the living room, oh well at least she didn’t wreck the TV, as he tries to look on the bright side. Then he remembers that there is no food in the house. Everything in the fridge is out of date and mouldy, the TV really is the only thing he has left.

  He is going to have to leave the house at some point. There is no food and there are funeral arrangements to make. But what if he goes out and someone recognises him? What does he say? What have they been saying about him? What does he say if someone asks how she died? He is too drained to cope with any of this.

  Two days pass. No one rings the doorbell or calls. No one. He doesn’t eat for two days, he just spends his time cleaning, sleeping or waiting. Waiting for something to ring, for someone to care. But mostly just waiting for the post to arrive. There was a small pile waiting when he returned to the house, but it wasn’t what he wanted.

  A small amount of post arrives each day. Some of it is anniversary cards, addressed to both of them. Congratulating them on reaching five happy years and wishing them a continued happy ever after. He reads each one carefully and unemotionally, looking closely at the handwriting, the names. They are not what he is looking for. He doesn’t know what to do with the anniversary cards, including the one he has hidden away upstairs, written to a darling wife. There seems little point in keeping them now. He hates the cards, the images of cutesy newlyweds and teddy bears mock him with their fairy-tale love.

  Condolence cards begin arriving, addressed to him alone. He doesn’t know what to do with these cards either. Is he meant to display them? It feels wrong to put them up. He wants to bin them but he knows he shouldn’t. He thinks about burning them, that feels more appropriate; but then what if the neighbours saw the fire and thought he was burning evidence? What if any of the senders of the cards came round to comfort him and asked if the card had arrived? He is not that great at lying. But he doesn’t want the cards, has no need for them, receives no comfort from them; he ends up stuffing them all in a drawer.

  The cards are not what he is waiting for. There are the usual bills, which he dutifully pays, a message from Margie which he doesn’t read. Then the usual take-away menus, which he reads through, carefully examining each one for an altered message, a folded note, something hidden for his eyes alone.

  He knows now, that the day Anne-Marie died, she went to the corner shop, nothing new or strange about that, but en route to the corner shop is a post box. She could have sent him something. That’s what he is hoping for, one last message, something, anything. He has searched the house in vain, whilst piling their broken possessions into bin bags. A note or something, anything, but nothing. Now he waits, he just needs something, one last “I hate you,” or “I am sorry,” or even, what he really hopes for, is an “I love you.” He is desperate for a last goodbye, something that she had written after the Fuck you Daniel. Those can’t be her last words, not after all this time. There has to be something else.

  He waits hopefully, searches fruitlessly, whilst knowing in his heart that Anne-Marie would have been too drunk to think of doing such a thing, that nothing is coming.

  There has to be something, his mind insists, it can’t end on a fuck you.

  It just can’t.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ludmilla Bryski has decided not to attend Anne-Marie Mills’ funeral. Not that she still bears any grudges or ill will towards that poor drunk creature. In fact, now she has had some sleep, Ludmilla can even feel the tiniest bit of remorse at her sudden passing. Remorse and guilt. She still thinks she heard a scream, still hears a scream over and over, but doesn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t her fault that Anne-Marie died. There was nothing she could have done. She just wanted there to be quiet.

  Ludmilla always thought that Anne-Marie would be the death of her, not the other way around. A drunken plague to an early grave. Even now Ludmilla still flinches when she turns on the vacuum cleaner, expecting a hammering on the wall or front door. Now there is no one to accuse her of passive aggressive vacuuming. Her husband Paul had been no help at the time. “Well you did start at seven in the morning, dear,” he had said with a
n annoyed sigh. What was she supposed to do? She hadn’t slept, she couldn’t just lie in bed all day like some people.

  Paul just couldn’t believe the worst of people. Ludmilla caught him yesterday, happily conversing with Lying Penny about what a tragedy it was, for such a sweet young girl to have such a nasty accident. Adding new fodder to Lying Penny’s lies. He doesn’t listen to anything Ludmilla tells him. He doesn’t even understand why he shouldn’t talk to Lying Penny.

  Ludmilla herself had plotted a far worse retaliation to Anne-Marie than just passively aggressively vacuuming. In those early morning hours, when she was kept awake by her own anger, as well as Anne-Marie’s drunken screams, whilst Paul slept peacefully beside her. But the vacuuming was the only thing she was brave enough to do.

  Ludmilla prayed that she would never have to see or hear Daniel Mills again either. But God only laughed and sent him back to his house. She heard him return, slamming the door so loud she feared Anne-Marie was alive again. When her heart stopped thumping with fear, she realised it was Daniel and felt … scared all over again. She doesn’t know what happened and doesn’t want to know, but she doesn’t want to live next door to him any more. He is not as harmless as she thought he was. Now instead of the constant neighbourhood hum of “How do we solve a problem like Anne-Marie?” They ask instead, “How do we make him leave?” It is too soon to suggest anything, but maybe after the funeral, they can get things moving. Maybe they will have peace in this neighbourhood, one day.

  Ludmilla does feel the need to pay some kind of respect to Anne-Marie. Maybe she will light a candle or maybe she will sip a stiff drink in Anne-Marie’s “honour”. That seems more fitting. A drink would calm her nerves, stop her hands from shaking. From Paul’s secret stash, of course.

  Daniel has regained his appetite with a vengeance. He has gone from fasting and waiting, to eating everything in sight, unable to sit still. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, what to think or how to feel. It started when he watched the first load of bin bags containing the broken remains of his life being crushed in the bin lorry, and felt nothing. Not even a sense of relief that it was nearly over. Just empty, just hungry, he told himself. He then scrubbed the fridge clean, showered for the first time in days and finally left the house to go food shopping, stockpiling as much food as he could. He hasn’t stopped eating since.