Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  “You sound just like your father, Peter.”

  Sherri means that he sounds like a spineless coward, a good-for-nothing bastard. Peter has had enough now and seeing no better option, he slams the phone down. One single mindless motion that he knows his mother will punish him for over and over again. She always knows when she has hit a nerve. She doesn’t let go, especially when she knows something is wrong and he is not telling her something. But if he tells her Anne-Marie had been drinking heavily, then she will start with the why wasn’t I told sooner? She will insist Anne-Marie’s drinking wasn’t that bad, that Daniel was lying. Peter will be punished if he tells her what really happened and he will be punished if he doesn’t. Peter closes his eyes, this shit is beyond overwhelming now.

  It has been two weeks since the funeral. Laura Noble rings the doorbell, eager for something to gossip about and to get a plan moving. Her cheer fades into shock as a bloated Daniel opens the door.

  “Maybe it’s time to move on,” she blurts out, not thinking about what she is saying. She is about to apologise and in the same breath suggest gym membership. Daniel doesn’t give her the chance, he takes one look at her and slams the door shut.

  He should feel guilty, he is not normally this rude, but he is tired, so tired. He lurches back into the kitchen, his feet loudly slapping against the dirty floor.

  Later, “Maybe it is time to move on” echoes in his mind.

  “Maybe it is time to move on.” The thought interrupts his evening feast, making him childishly add another plop of butter to his already saturated meal.

  “Maybe it is time to move on” echoes more annoyingly than any TV advert as he pours his fourth beer.

  You should move on, it’s so fucking easy to do. You should stop destroying your life. Because it is just that fucking simple, just move on, jeez. Why didn’t I think of that? Sure, I will just click my fingers and all the hurt will just magically disappear, everything will be rainbows and sunshine again. All new and improved.

  He finishes his fifth beer as the air around him grows hotter and stuffier. The smell from the stairs is growing so strong, he can’t bear sitting in the room any longer. Daniel treads carefully up the stairs, the wet carpet squelching underfoot. He grips a bottle of brandy in one hand and recalls the bitter-sweet memories in his head. The heat has been unbearable ever since the funeral. There is constant threat of a storm in the air. It’s so muggy he can barely breathe and all the while there is a smell emanating from all parts of his house. He needs to get out. But how? He takes a long drink of the brandy before stripping down to his underpants and climbing into bed, without brushing his teeth – well, it’s not like he will be kissing anyone tonight.

  It’s too hot to sleep. He takes another long gulp of the brandy, trying to wash away the accusations and the feelings of guilt that have followed him upstairs. His eyelids grow heavy and he finally closes his eyes …

  Daniel wakes up at 4 am. The air feels colder, and heavy taps of rain hit his window. Daniel thinks that its Anne-Marie tapping and bolts upright. But it’s just the rain, he sleepily assures himself. He is still alone, alone in the bed he used to share with his wife. All that remains of her now is a wrecked room and a lingering odour. Even in here, he thinks he can still smell it, pressing down on him, suffocating him. A gush of wind howls outside, sending shivers down his spine as lightning flashes, briefly lighting up his bare room.

  Neither awake nor asleep, he imagines his room as a court, and the thunder striking as a judge hammers the court to order.

  “Guilty!” roars the rain and the jury. “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty.”

  “I am not guilty,” Daniel shrieks. Did he really say that aloud?

  “You wanted her to die,” the voices accuse. “You hoped she would die. You gave her the alcohol knowing it was killing her. You wanted her gone but you were too cowardly to kill her any other way. So you helped her drink herself to death.”

  “You killed her and you need to be punished.”

  He wasn’t guilty, the police even said so.

  “Guilty, even the police thought so.”

  He often wished she was dead. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t really mean it. He just wanted something to change.

  He brought her alcohol, but even if he didn’t, she would make his life a living hell and do unspeakable things to his toothbrush. He didn’t buy her that much, not as much as she had been drinking, and it still worries him where else she might have been getting it. What she might had done to get it. He had looked around at the funeral, trying to find her collaborator, her enabler, her lover? But everywhere he looked, the accusing stares were aimed at him alone. She had stolen alcohol, but she was a terrible thief and she was always caught. He always paid quietly for those bottles, but there were other unaccounted for bottles, so someone else was helping her, someone was as guilty as him. It wasn’t just his fault.

  There isn’t going to be an official trial but he has already been judged and found guilty! Sentenced to a lifetime of loneliness and greasy food.

  Daniel lies under the sheets, longing for warmth. He closes his eyes but can’t go back to sleep. He is too tired to be awake, doesn’t ever want to be awake again. Rain continues to thud against his window. He feels cold and very much alone. His head is pounding from the brandy and his heart is pounding from the fear.

  Rain, he had fallen in love with her in the rain. One time they were coming home from the pub, laughing drunkenly together as it started to rain. Instead of running for cover, Anne-Marie just took off her shoes and started to dance in the rain, dragging Daniel to dance with her. Anne-Marie had taught him how to laugh – and then she wiped the smile off his face just as quickly.

  He thinks of the bottle still by his side. Would that not bring warmth and much needed sleep? Is that not how this all started? She started drinking because she couldn’t sleep? Maybe he should follow her example. They could become a modern Romeo and Juliet. Though unlike Juliet, Anne-Marie was not faking. Daniel remembers her pleading open eyes. The blood. The sickening stillness and the longed-for silence. I never should have left her. But I couldn’t take any more. No one was willing to help. They are all so quick to judge but no one came when he called, when he was broken and begging for help like the weak little man he was. Still shouldn’t have left her.

  I didn’t kill her. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything. His words sound empty even to himself. He is not sure he believes himself. Should he just confess? Anything just to make them stop. He wants everything to stop, for the accusations to go away. He pulls the spare pillow over his head, trying to block out the rain and his thoughts. Make it all go away.

  He shouldn’t have left her.

  He tosses to one side, and a painful twinge starts in his neck. The rain seems louder on this side, so he switches again. Now his leg is too bent, twinging with protesting pains. He shuffles around again. He needs to relax, shut down his thoughts. Maybe think of that stunner from the afternoon’s movie. The one with the perky breasts and long dark hair. She was very nice … no, it’s no use. It’s deader than dead. Cold and unresponsive, just like she was. Oh god. Didn’t want to think about that. He removes his hand, feeling ashamed and dirty and tries to turn over again. He becomes more aware of his ever-expanding belly, crushing against his lungs, and turns again.

  It’s 4-fucking-30 am. Why can’t he sleep? As a final bolt of lightning lights up the room, Daniel half-expects to see the broken Anne-Marie in the corner. That would be just like her, tormenting him even now, beyond the grave. He watches for a few more minutes, waiting for another strike, but the storm is moving on. Everything is moving on except him. He is stuck here and he doesn’t know what to do.

  It’s nearly 5 am now and he is still restless. Hell, it’s not like he has to go to work tomorrow. He needs to stop thinking and go to sleep. He thinks of the bottle again, that would help. No, he doesn’t want to end up like her. Can’t end up like her. But then what’s the point of going on without her? The bed s
he hadn’t slept in for nearly a year feels empty. He wants her back so badly but then did he ever really have her? Angry tears splash down his face. He gives in and takes a gulp of brandy. As the warmth spreads down his body, he thinks he can feel Anne-Marie lying next to him and closes his eyes once again.

  Daniel wakes up alone, with an ache in his neck. He expected to see someone next to him, had dreamt she was there. He feels like shit. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. Best just to lie here for a while. There is nothing he needs to do today anyway. It’s either lying here or lying in front of the TV.

  “Maybe he should move on.”

  Maybe they should shut up.

  It takes two days for Peter to work up the nerve to call his mother and apologise. He doesn’t want to admit he was enjoying the silent treatment. Sherri spends the next ten minutes telling him it’s her fault for not raising him better, for not finding a better replacement father figure, for raising him to be a coward. Peter just murmurs agreements whilst sipping on a cold bottle of beer.

  “I want to know everything Peter,” his mother finally demands. “I want to know what happened in January. Why YOU said it was an accident. Why YOU said it was a suicide. I want to know how YOU found her. EVERYTHING.”

  “Ma, can’t you just move on? Let the police deal with this?”

  “They are as useless as you are. I can’t move on, Peter.”

  “Ma.”

  “It’s a crock of shit when they say that time heals all wounds. Peter, let me tell you, the wounds may scab over but they are still infected.”

  Silence. Peter takes another sip of beer, wishing he had something stronger to drink. He can’t argue with that. His mother isn’t going to let this go.

  “I can’t let that shit get away with murder, Peter. You have to help me.” Sherri thinks of her daughter, crying for her mother at the bottom of the stairs, scared and hurt. Sherri couldn’t help her then. The only thing she can do is make sure that her daughter’s murderer doesn’t get away with it. She doesn’t understand why her son is being so difficult.

  “I am waiting, Peter.”

  Hesitatingly, but knowing he has no other choice, Peter tells his mother a condensed, well-rehearsed version of the events. She listens, interrupts occasionally, like when Peter tells her that Daniel said he left Anne-Marie alive and trashing his room.

  “Did you see the room?”

  Peter admits that he didn’t.

  “How do you know he wasn’t just making it up?”

  Sherri then wanted to know everything he told the police. He tells her mostly everything, except that he purposely ignored the phone call on his lunch break, knowing what her reaction would be. Sherri is still in denial about Anne-Marie’s drinking, still insisting that her daughter was not an alcoholic, that she just liked a drink every now again; married to Daniel, who could blame her? Blah blah. Sherri reuses her old excuses, her old denials and stories that she used to use for her own drinking.

  When he finishes telling her everything, Sherri is quiet. Peter holds his breath, waiting anxiously for a reaction. His mother’s voice is quieter and firmer than he expected when finally she says, “I need you to go back to that house, Peter, look for more evidence. We need to find more evidence.”

  More days go by. Daniel has eaten so many fish and chip dinners, he can feel grease oozing out his pores. He gets out of breath just moving around the house and has lost sight of his toes. But still he eats. None of his trousers fit and on the rare occasions when he leaves the house, complete strangers shout insults at him. But still he eats. His face has more pimples than the average adolescent and his hair is pure grease but still he eats on, and on, and on. It’s the only thing he can think to do, keep eating until it goes away. He doesn’t even know what “it” is but just wants it to go away.

  He goes out again for yet another fish and chip dinner, to the shop with the woman who used to greet him with a smile and a “How are you, sweetheart?” Now she scowls at him, sullenly serving him as quickly as possible. The only time he sees a smile these days is on television. He considers driving out of town, just to eat at a place where people don’t know him, but then he might have to explain why he left town, even for one night. They are watching him, he knows that, every move he makes, he can feel their eyes watching, tongues mocking and whispering.

  Daniel staggers out of his car, clutching the tepid fish and chips to his chest. He can smell the unmistakable scent of eggs, even over the vinegary scent of the chips. His front door has been completely splattered. He shrugs. What does it matter? It was probably Sherri getting some kind of petty revenge. He won’t give anyone the satisfaction of reacting. Plus, he thinks cheerfully, it will give him something to do after he has eaten, in that long boring period before he is due to eat again.

  Maybe he should sell the house. That would make the stain and the smell someone else’s problem. He has never liked the house anyway. They had bought it because they couldn’t find anywhere else. It seemed a good compromise at the time. They were just so eager to get the baby’s room ready. His little girl’s room. Now the house is just another monument to bad memories. Perhaps it is time to move on. He doesn’t want to grow old in this house with nothing but the lingering smell of spirits.

  Selling would mean getting rid of every last trace of Anne-Marie. It would mean going through what was left of her stuff. Then there would be estate agents, quotes, the hassle of finding a new place, then the viewings, the nosey onlookers, everyone asking questions. Daniel doesn’t have the energy for any more questions. But he doesn’t want to die in this house either.

  He fills a bucket up with warm soapy water and scrubs hard at the eggs plastered to his front door. Maybe it is too soon to sell, people will start making presumptions. But then did they really expect him to stay in a house where his wife died? Who would want to buy a house that someone has died in? There is nothing quite like a death in a house to lower the property value. Also, he would have to repaint all the walls. At least the fresh paint smell will distract potential buyers from the lingering scent of stale blood. If it didn’t then he would have some explaining to do. Was it really worth all that effort? He could just sell the house as is. But that would mean a loss on potential profits, and he needs all the money he can get right now. Most wives got into trouble for running up large bills shopping for clothes or jewellery, but not his wife, oh no, she spent everything they had, and money that they didn’t have, on alcohol. At least the other wives had pretty things to show for it. She had nothing but cirrhosis. He is partly to blame for the large bills, and the constant buying of food isn’t helping either. He needs to get back to work or sell the house or his car. He has to do something soon, no one will employ a bankrupt accountant. He finishes scrubbing the front door with a relish, it looks cleaner now than it has in years. Invigorated, he decides to get some fresh water and scrub the hallway walls again.

  Maybe he should start with baby steps. Maybe it is time to finally evict Anne-Marie out of his house and mind. Finally go into her bedroom and scrub away the last traces, and then maybe she will stop haunting him. Not today though, he doesn’t think he can do it today. Tomorrow, first thing tomorrow. He keeps scrubbing at the hallway for a while, the walls are looking better, he thinks the smell is starting to go away. It is time to move on. He is going to order a pizza to celebrate.

  Daniel opens the door to the pizza guy, and sees Ludmilla Bryski and Laura Noble gawking from across the road. The look of anxious worry on their faces suggests they were just gossiping about him and are anxiously praying he hadn’t overheard.

  Daniel grunts his thanks to the indifferent delivery guy, and closes the door again on the outside world. Fuckers have egged his front door, AGAIN. He is so fucking tired of this neighbourhood. He tries to think who would be doing it. Was it still Sherri? It wasn’t the sort of thing Lying Penny would do but maybe Gloria … or Laura, maybe even Ludmilla, though she wasn’t the type to waste food. No, his neighbours wouldn’t do that, they
weren’t the type. Sherri was that sort of person, it must be her.

  There is no point in calling the police about the egging. Daniel knows what the police think of him, they didn’t like him. They would probably try to frame him for the egging, say it was attention seeking. Why is everyone so determined to push him to his fucking limits? Anne-Marie always took so much joy in pushing him – push push, poke, push, until he snapped. She took such great delight in making him snap. Sherri did too. They all just wanted to break him, humiliate him. Ever since he was young, he has been the world’s punching bag. He just wants to punch them back, keep on punching until he is revenged for every insult, every humiliation, everything.

  He needs power, biceps. He needs to lose this soft victim look, he needs to work out until he becomes something more dangerous, something even the old wives wouldn’t dare gossip about, something that finally makes people respect him, fear him. They already fear him.

  The blood stain on the stairs screams out to the neighbourhood that he is a slaughterer, a murderer, a slayer, and they all hear. They all believed Anne-Marie’s lies before and now instead of a beating heart, she has placed a megaphone beneath the floorboards. It is so fucking typical of Anne-Marie, always lying to get other people’s sympathies. There is no way of shutting her up now either. It isn’t fair, where were his condolences? His supporters? His comforters? Why did they always believe her?

  Daniel feels so angry, he stuffs another pizza slice into his mouth, imagining it will give him superhuman strength, the power to crush everything so the others can feel his pain. He would take particular pleasure in crushing Sherri’s stupid house, whilst she sobs outside, regretting all her vicious lies. Hell, he would make sure he crushed it whilst she was still in the house.

  Oh god, this isn’t him.

  Look at what they have made him into. An animal! A monster! He never used to think like this. He needs to get out of this house; if he doesn’t get out soon, who knows what they will make him do. He is not a monster. He is not. He is not guilty!