Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  Not that a plaster would have fixed that huge bleeding hole in her forehead. “Danny, I need a plaster.”

  What was his line again? Something uncaring like, “Go back to sleep.” Something like that. He can smell her perfume of alcohol and blood. It has become a reassuring smell now, she won’t leave him.

  “Danny, I need a plaster.”

  Alone in the living room, he can hear her singing – Elvis again. A broken-hearted voice promising that he was the only thing on her mind. He takes a deep breath and charges up the stairs, as fast as he can manage, feeling her behind him, giving chase. He goes straight into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Loud enough to startle the Bryskis. He throws himself onto the bed with a loud thud and dives underneath the sheets. Not that he can sleep now. He lies, panting, heart racing, on his bed, frantically looking around the room. It’s not fair, why won’t people leave him alone? Why must he be harassed, hunted and haunted? His wife had been a ghost before she died, a ghastly figure wailing in the night and bumping into walls. She was barely here before, now she should be gone. It isn’t fair. He spent so much time waiting to be rid of her and just when he was starting to think that it was all over, she comes back to haunt him.

  He can hear the phone ringing again, then it stops, then it starts again. Someone must want him for real this time, there must be some kind of emergency, He staggers down the stairs and rushes to the phone, his heart pounding.

  “Hello?”

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

  Day breaks and there have been no more phone calls. It doesn’t really matter to Daniel, because after the last call at 4 am, he didn’t go back to sleep. He spent an hour inwardly raging against whoever is calling him, thinking about what he would like to do to them. The sun begins to rise, the light banishing Anne-Marie back into the spare room. He glumly thinks of the day ahead. It’s going to be another hot day, he needs to go out before it gets too hot. He needs to shower before he goes out, if he is going to shower then he needs to clean the bathroom, if … it just hasn’t seemed worth it lately. But he is running short of everything. He needs to go out today. It will do him good to get away from the house and the ridiculous notion that Anne-Marie is still here.

  Today is going to be a better day, he promises himself, heaving himself up off the bed and finally into the shower. He piles some malodorous washing into the machine and leaves the house. He is tired but cheerful, despite the egg stains on his front door, despite Gloria Hutchings obviously hiding as she sees him, clutching something in her hand. He is not going to let anyone bother him today. It doesn’t matter that even the sheer effort of walking up and down the aisles at the supermarket is exhausting him, it doesn’t matter that he has filled his trolley with some essentials, but mostly with things that are bad for you. He has got some sleeping aids (a bottle of brandy and a bottle of whiskey) and he is happily steering his trolley towards the check-out, looking at the shelves rather than where he is going, when BANG, he collides with another trolley. He starts to apologise as he looks into the unsmiling face of Sherri Fowler. Oh shit!

  “Murderer!” she snarls.

  She expected him to ignore her, keep walking, pretending he didn’t hear anything, his usual cowardly manner, and an obvious sign of his guilt.

  But Daniel’s temper flares. “What did you say?”

  An even more obvious sign of his guilt.

  Sherri is not even in the least bit intimidated. “I said you are a MURDERER!” she yells loudly enough for people in the next aisle to hear.

  A few heads turn and some other people suddenly become very intent on studying the shelves in front of them.

  “I did nothing to her,” Daniel retorts pathetically. Then he thinks of the prank calls, his repeatedly egged front door, and now he is certain of who has been harassing him. The question is, how did she know to find him here? Is she stalking him now? What else is she planning?

  “This has got to stop, Sherri, I didn’t do a fucking thing to your daughter.”

  “You killed her!”

  “It was an accident!” He is going to regret saying that. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  The onlookers are whispering now, and Daniel suspects a manager has been called. “Walk away,” a voice inside him reasons, “walk away now! You are not going to win in a fight against Sherri.”

  He rages against the voice. Whatever happened to Anne-Marie wasn’t just his fault, wasn’t his fault at all. Sherri was partly to blame, she was in denial about Anne-Marie’s drinking. Daniel used to believe that Anne-Marie only married him to get away from Sherri. Sherri and her “nothing is ever good enough” criticisms, Sherri and her temper. Sherri and her “you are just like your father” manipulations. Daniel inwardly fumes, trying to hold himself back. This is not the place, he keeps repeating to himself. But still, one more retort, one more. Something to feed the crowd.

  “If you loved her so much, why did you break her arm?”

  Sherri’s eyes shoot open, and she manages a weak “That was an accident.” Direct hit! Sherri is so upset that the unmentionable incident has been mentioned, she can barely even speak. She can sense the crowd is shifting in allegiance. All accusing eyes on her now, especially when Daniel says, “What kind of accident does an eight-year-old have that ends up with a broken arm?” The look in her eyes warns him against asking further questions. He is not that stupid.

  Sherri feels anger shake through her veins, her hands clench and beg to tear Daniel limb from limb. She clenches her jaw and pictures sinking her teeth deep into his flesh and then she will shred, shred and shred until nothing but an unrecognisable pile of flesh remains. She clenches unrecognisable muscles, trying to hold herself back. Wait, just wait, she promises herself. You will get your chance, when no one else is around. No witnesses. Her hands begin to throb, little red crescents forming in her clenching hands, as her fingernails dig into her flesh instead of his. She has never felt like this before, so tense, so angry … so strong. Just slip up once, fat boy, just once. One excuse, that’s all she needs, one excuse and no witnesses. Her eight-year-old daughter breaking her arm had been an accident, an accident Daniel shouldn’t even know about. He had no right to bring that up. No fucking right. How dare he!

  Daniel struts off quickly before she manages to speak again, paying for his shopping and leaving, before someone official asks him to leave.

  A fresh coat of egg has been added to his door whilst he was out. Daniel carries the shopping bags, taking extra care not to touch the slime. He knows who is doing this now and he is going to catch her and report her to the police. Problem solved, he might even get a restraining order against her! Ha! That will teach her. He suspects she will retaliate soon after what happened in the supermarket. He will have to set up some kind of surveillance, he almost hopes that she will do something more substantial, something that will force the police to act against her. He can’t believe he stood up to her! Finally! He should have said more! Dragged all of her skeletons out of the closet! All those drunken “secrets” Anne-Marie slurred at him over the years are becoming useful.

  He stays exuberant as he cooks brunch, he is going to feast on some nice fresh food for once, things are finally sunny-side up! His hand automatically reaches out and grabs two plates.

  Then he stops, his happiness crashing down around him.

  He realises he has cooked two brunches without even thinking about it. He has flipped the eggs the way she liked them. This time he won’t be eating, wondering if she is going to come down stairs or what state or mood she will be in, because she is not coming down. The plates crash out of his shaking hands, and the brunch, his special brunch, begins to burn as tears cascade down his face.

  He is just finishing shovelling the burnt remains into the bin as the phone rings, hesitantly he answers it.

  “Hello?”

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

  He slams the receiver down, but that doesn’t fee
l enough. He picks up the entire phone and hurtles it into the wall as hard as he can, with a loud, satisfying smash, frightening the life out of Ludmilla Bryski. Then he paces up and down the corridor, trying to calm himself down before grabbing his mobile and dialling a different number.

  “Hello?”

  “You tell your mother to leave me the fuck alone!” This comes out more slurred than he likes to admit, anger seizing his tongue.

  “What? Daniel is that you?”

  “You tell your mother to leave me alone,” Daniel repeats more firmly. “I don’t know why you are all so adamant that I killed her. I didn’t! Leave me alone!”

  Peter is silent. Daniel deflates, he is tired, sad, angry and he is yelling at the wrong person. The Fowlers no doubt will be laughing at him later, all he is accomplishing with this phone call is confirmation that they are getting to him.

  “I am sorry, Peter.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “I keep getting phone calls from people saying I am a murderer. I know its Sherri’s doing. Just ask her to stop OK?”

  “OK.” Peter is too stunned by Daniel’s outburst to really say anything. Even on the really bad Anne-Marie days, he has never heard his brother-in-law so angry.

  “She keeps egging my front door, too,” Daniel adds, feeling childish. There is a brief silence where neither of them know what to say.

  Daniel abruptly says goodbye and hangs up.

  Peter doesn’t know what is going on, all he heard was a pig squealing things that didn’t make sense. He knows better than to ask his mother not to do something, Daniel should know that too by now.

  Daniel examines the broken house phone. Nothing left to do except throw it in the bin. Use it to force down the burnt brunch and empty crisp packets. He should probably empty the bin but that means going outside, and going outside means having to smell the intoxicating aroma of raw eggs, of having to acknowledge the slime and the hatred. One good day, that’s all he needs, one good day, where nothing goes wrong, no one bothers him. He should feel more remorse over denting the wall, but then it wasn’t like the walls upstairs are in pristine condition. What did it matter? He isn’t going to get a good day. He wasn’t going to be left alone. The look in Sherri’s eyes promised that there will be more to come.

  He can’t just leave the door, it will rot in the heat, the smell of rotting eggs is already starting to penetrate the house. He has had enough of bad smells. He will just clean the door again, it is easier than anything else. Just like it was easier to just clean the house, instead of arguing with Anne-Marie. Just like it was easier to stay with her rather than leave her. Just like it was easier to hand over his money to the school bullies, instead of getting his nose punched. He can either mope, remembering every time he was someone’s punching bag, the victim, or he could just empty the bin and clean the door, force the lid shut on his memories.

  A few monotonous hours of scrubbing and then eating and more eating later and Daniel is sitting alone in the living room. Nothing unusual about that but for once the television is not on. The room is in complete darkness. The window is open but only slightly. It is 3 am and he is waiting, has been for hours now. Hiding out of sight, slowly sipping a cold beer. Straining his ears, desperate to hear a sign, listening for the tell-tale thump and crack of an egg hitting his door. This must stop. He keeps repeating to himself, in a desperate attempt to keep his tiredness at bay, this must stop. He doesn’t know what he will do to make her stop, he has never been any good at standing up to school-yard bullies. But each sip of beer is giving him newfound strength and courage. He should go to bed, he knows that, but he has a chance to end this. She must know he is awake, despite his best efforts, a witch like her would sense it. She is just waiting for him to go to bed and then she will strike. He won’t give in.

  He keeps turning to stare at the hallway, Sherri isn’t the only thing he is waiting for. The stains seem more visible in the darkness, even though he has gone over and over them again with the cleaner. It is comforting in a strange way, right now, like his wife is finally standing with him, supporting him. Perhaps that chill is her hand resting on his shoulder, her other hand trying to steal his beer.

  It is 4 am and Daniel thinks he is losing his mind along with everything else.

  The irony is not lost on Daniel, he knows he is turning into his wife, finally after all these years he understands how she felt. He doesn’t want to end up like her but this eating, drinking, sleeping or not sleeping cycle is so hard to break. He thinks of all those times when he looked at her, wishing she would snap out of it, stop being so bloody mopey, make an effort for once. Now he knows it’s not that easy. Every day he wakes up telling himself today will be different, today he is going to change things, today is going to be a better day and each evening he goes to bed a broken man.

  “I am just a little depressed right now, my wife died after all,” he says to himself.

  Man up. You is a fucking pansy, a disgrace to your gender. Snap out of it, you fucking pussy. A voice similar to Sherri’s answers from inside him.

  You are always depressed. You have been depressed for fucking months now. A voice similar to Peter’s answers with a sneer.

  “I am doing the best I can,” Daniel whines.

  But you don’t do anything, you do nothing to help yourself. You just eat and eat and eat. You are making yourself this depressed and what do you do to compensate? You ignore everyone, you shout at people, pick fights in supermarkets. How is that HELPING?

  “FUCK OFF.” Daniel is constantly saying that to no one now. Fuck off. He sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, from dreams, screaming for the vultures to fuck off, then he sits in the dark, shocked at himself, worrying if Ludmilla heard him. Spending his nights waiting for a knock on the door, waiting for the singing to start, waiting for the “Danny, I need you.”

  He is drinking in the morning now, just like she did. If he is not careful, he is going to end up just like her. Daniel feels a small pang of jealousy. If he suffered a similar incident to Anne-Marie, he wouldn’t have anyone like Sherri demanding justice. He wouldn’t be missed. No one would even care to find out what happened. He would just be dead and gone, forgotten before morning. The police would take one look at the credit card bills, those mounting bills. Oh god, he should have insured that fucking bitch years ago. Her death payout would have got him out of this financial sink hole. He is going have to sell the house anyway before the bank seizes it. He will have to start again, start again with nothing but a wish that he had never got married in the first place. He should have just killed that stupid bitch years ago and been done with it. Daniel finishes his beer and decides finally to go to bed. If they want to egg his door, then they can just egg away, he doesn’t care.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I saw him in the supermarket.” No pleasantries, she just plows straight in.

  Peter knows better than to make a joke and say, “Who is this?” Peter can also guess who she is talking about, he knows better than to play dumb. His mother will only talk about one thing now.

  “What happened?” he groans.

  “He practically admitted to murdering Anne-Marie! Said that he didn’t murder her, it was an accident! He practically admitted it, Peter! But that shit of a store manager wouldn’t tell me if they got it on their cameras.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And he threatened me.”

  “And what did you say to him?”

  “You are just like your father!” Sherri spits.

  “What? Reasonable?” Peter wants to reply, but knows it’s not worth it. Sherri is becoming more and more irritated with her least favourite child. He doesn’t react how she wants him to react, he doesn’t even seem interested. He won’t do what she wants him to do either. She has been reading as many true crime books as she can get her hands on. She has become convinced that something incriminating is still hidden in the house, but will her ungrateful son go and look? No. She wanted Peter to go and endlessly
question Daniel, over and over until he snapped, whilst recording everything that was said, but no, he won’t do that either. It’s not like Sherri can do it, she hates the bastard.

  “He is threatening me now, Peter.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing” Her snarls are met with disbelieving silence, and finally Peter says, “I will talk to him.”

  “Sure you will! I am sure you two pansies will sit down and have a nice little tea party.”

  “Ma.”

  “Why do you keep defending him, Peter?”

  He tries to change the subject. “Did you give Daniel’s phone number to your friends on the internet?”

  “No.” Sherri hadn’t thought to do that. It wasn’t a bad idea though. Her friends have been very helpful so far, not like her son. “You didn’t answer my question, why are you defending him? Are you two …?” Sherri is too revolted by the thought to finish the question.

  “I am not defending him! I am trying to move on!”

  “Does your sister’s death mean nothing to you?”

  “Why are you here?” Sherri snarls at Peter. She has waited weeks for her son to visit now, and when she doesn’t want to see him, he bloody well turns up.

  He holds out his phone, like a small child proudly revealing a handmade creation. Peter shows his mother a text message, silently praying that it will be enough to placate Mount Sherri. She snatches the phone, lips moving as she reads a text message from Daniel.