Read by Greg Page
“He’s coming up the driveway. He’s definitely coming up the driveway.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Tom, I said, he’s coming up the driveway.”
“Jen—just wait a moment.”
“That really annoys me.”
“What?”
“When you tell me to wait a moment.”
“What?”
Jen closed the curtain on the dark February evening, and backed away warily from the living room window to the doorway of the kitchen. “Tom,” she said, “we’re about to have a visitor.”
“You invited someone?” he exclaimed.
“No.”
“Then who is it? And why are you acting all weird?”
Jen answered the two questions in one go. “I think it’s a marriage inspector.”
“Oh my God. Oh. My. God.”
“I’d heard a couple of them were in the neighbourhood.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think to.”
Tom pushed past her on his way out of the kitchen.
“Hey! What was that for?”
“I’m going to turn off the lights,” Tom said over his shoulder. “If he thinks we’re out, we might get away with …”
KNOCK.
"… it.”
KNOCK KNOCK.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
“Coming!” Jen was startled by the change in Tom’s voice. Yes, it was all an act, but she hadn’t heard him sound even artificially cheerful since … since … her mind shied away from the thought, like a horse refusing a jump. Since a very, very long time ago.
She rushed to join Tom in the hallway—the Inspector was already across the threshold, and shrugging off his mackintosh. He was a short man, with a pencil moustache and horn-rimmed glasses. “Good to meet you, Mr Castle,” he said to her husband. “And this is Mrs Castle?” He looked directly at Tom as he spoke, but it seemed to Jen that his eyes were also scoping out their house, darting around independently of one another.
“Yes, that’s right,” she chirped. “You must be the marriage inspector?”
“Correct.”
“What might I call you?”
“Inspector.”
“Inspector what?”
“Don’t pester him, dear,” said Tom.
The Inspector raised his eyebrows, took a notebook out of his waistcoat pocket, and made a mark with a stubby pencil.
“Ah … oh, forgive me,” said Jen. “It’s something we find funny. I always want to know more about people. When I get my teeth into something, I don’t let go easily.”
“Ha ha.”
Jen cringed. Tom had literally just said “Ha ha,” and not even attempted a fake laugh. “Ha ha,” Tom continued, “Yes, when Jen’s teeth are in, she just locks her jaw and waits for her prey to die! Ha ha.”
A profound silence. And then:
“I’ll be joining you for dinner,” muttered the Inspector. “Assuming you have enough for three?”
“Oh yes, yes.” Tom headed for the kitchen. “A half-leg of lamb. Plenty of it. In fact, it’s almost ready. If you wait in the living room with Jen, I’ll serve the starter.”
“If you don’t mind,” said the Inspector. “I’ll have a quick tour of the house first.”
“There’s not a lot of it to see,” Jen replied. She caught a glimpse of Tom’s face over the Inspector’s shoulder. “I mean … yes, no problem. No problem at all.”
She led the Inspector upstairs. He started with the bathroom.
“According to the records,” he said, as he noted the position of the toilet seat, “you’ve been married for five years. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” said Jen. “But it seems longer. That is … um.”
“I’ll see your spare bedroom now.”
In the spare bedroom, the Inspector took great interest in the sofa-bed. He took the cushions off, unfolded it, and sat down on the thin mattress.
“What are you looking for?” asked Jen.
“Signs that this has recently been slept in.”
“Oh, this old thing hasn’t been used in a long time. The big sofa downstairs is far more comfortable …” What was she saying? With every sentence she spoke, she felt like she was trying to defuse a bomb and cutting the wrong wire. Then again, that was how she felt around Tom most of the time these days. And—the thought genuinely occurred to her for the first time—might this be the way he felt around her? “How long have you been a marriage inspector?” she said, interrupting herself to change the subject. “We’ve never had a visit before.”
“Oh, a while,” the Inspector replied.
Talking to this man was like serving tennis balls to an opponent who never knocked one back. “I see. How interesting. Main bedroom next?”
*
“Mr and Mrs Castle,” the Inspector dabbed at his lips with his napkin. They had only just finished the starter, and he had already put away three-quarters of a bottle of Merlot. It had loosened him up to the point that he spoke without prompting. “Thank you. That was very appetising. But I can’t help but notice…”
“Notice what?” Jen and Tom asked simultaneously.
“Notice that there is a certain lack of … romantic ambience. The lights have not been dimmed. I suppose this is because if they were, you wouldn’t be able to see the food. This table …” He tapped it. “No candles.”
“I’m sure we have some candles somewhere … perhaps in the kitchen. I’ll look.” Tom got up.
“Do you remember, Tom,” said Jen as he retreated to the kitchen, “years ago—we used to light a candle with dinner every night?”
The Inspector took out his notebook, and scribbled in it. From the kitchen came the noise of Tom rooting around in the Everything Cupboard. It sounded like he was trying to dig a tunnel. If he was, Jen couldn’t blame him. A few minutes later, he re-emerged with a steaming casserole dish, and, balanced on top of it, a tea-light and a box of matches.
“Jen, sweetheart,” he said, setting everything down. “Would you light the candle? I’ll dish up.”
The matches were damp. Jen tried a couple of times, before Tom took them from her with a sigh—duly noted by the Inspector—and failed to get one to light.
“Just get the food on the plates, Tom,” Jen snapped. “It’s getting cold.”
Again the notebook. Again the raised eyebrow.
“And you,” she said, turning to the Inspector. “I’ve heard the rumours, but now you’re sitting at our table and eating our food, you can give us a straight answer. Where does all of this go? Who sees your report? What happens to us if our marriage doesn’t meet your exacting standards?”
“I can’t answer the first two questions,” said the Inspector. “But as for the third—something horrible. Something really horrible happens if—when—you fail an inspection.” He permitted himself a smile, and it was not a pleasant smile. “And now, how about some of this lamb?”
Later, all Tom would say was that a story had flashed through his head—a short story about a woman who murdered her husband with a frozen leg of lamb, and then cooked and ate the murder weapon. Of course, a half-leg of lamb doesn’t have the same heft as a full leg, and is a lot softer cooked than it is frozen, making the business of clubbing a man to death with it much more difficult. But Tom decided to have a go, regardless.
And in any case, Jen was by his side in an instant, and finished off the Inspector with the Le Creuset casserole dish. It had been a wedding present.
*
“When’s the next bin collection?” asked Jen.
“Green or black?” said Tom, as they carried the body through to the back yard.
“Black, I suppose.”
“Tomorrow. Do you think dead bodies go in black bins? I’d have thought of them as more green bin material…”
“Yes, but the green bags are a little small. And they tear easily. If we get him in a black binbag, hopefully they’ll just pop him in the compactor and take him to landfill, with no one any the wiser.”
“Smart thinking.”
“Thank you,” said Jen, and felt a little warm glow inside her. For some reason, compliments from Tom meant much more than those from other people. Even when—especially when—she knew he was just being nice. “Only I’m not so sure it’s smart,” she mused, “I mean, there was a lot of blood back there in the living room—not that I’m complaining, we need a new carpet anyway—but I think there’s still a good amount left in him. Won’t the binbag get all mooshy in the bin lorry? Won’t they get suspicious?”
“Good point. Well, we can wrap him in plastic now, and drop him in a lake later.”
“Which lake?”
“The one up by the woods and the monument. Where we used to go for walks.”
“We can take a moonlit stroll afterwards.”
“Yes. Romantic.”
“Wait!” Jen froze. “What was that?”
That was the snick of the latch opening on the gate, the one that led into the little alley outside. A moment later, a figure—dressed in the same style of mackintosh as the late Inspector, but taller and tougher-looking by far—stepped into the back yard.
“Oh. Ohhhh. You did it! You killed him!”
Tom dropped his half of the body, and stepped forward into the light that shone from the kitchen window.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “I murdered your colleague, and I forced my wife to help me dispose of the body.”
The new Inspector brushed his hand through his stubble, and turned to Jen.
“You. The wife,” he said softly. “Is this true?”
Jen didn’t hesitate.
“It’s not true.” She let go of the body, and took Tom’s hand. It was a little slippery, and she had to hold tight. “We both did it. Together.”
The new Inspector exhaled loudly.
“Good. Very good.”
“What?”
“Very good. You—Mr Tom Castle?—tried to cover for your wife. And you, Jen, you weren’t having any of it. Going down together like Bonnie and Clyde, Thelma and Louise … I like it. I like it a lot.” He leaned down, and in a manner clearly learned from a health-and-safety course, grabbed hold of the dead body and hoisted it effortlessly over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll get rid of this for you. Wouldn’t want you putting a bin lorry out of commission, or polluting a lake.”
“And … and…” Jen stammered. “And … what about us?”
The man waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, you’re fine, you passed the inspection. You’ve got a clean sheet. Well, I’ll be seeing you. Have a good Valentine’s Day!” He turned to go.
“One last thing,” said Jen. “I was wondering…” she glanced into Tom’s eyes and saw that he had the same question. “We were wondering: what would have happened if we’d failed?”
The man paused, and adjusted the weight of the body. “In that case,” he said, wearily, “you’d have been put to work.”
A chill shuddered through Jen. “Forced labour? As what?”
The man sighed and twisted the worn gold band on his finger. “Marriage Inspectors.”
(c) Niall Boyce, 2016
Niall Boyce is an editor and writer. He is happily married.
Aged six, Greg Page was cast as Joseph in his infant school nativity. Somebody put a tea towel on his head and he became someone else. He hasn't been himself since. He can be contacted through www.roseberymanagement.com and has no idea what he's done with his keys.
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