Read by Annalie Wilson
Patrick burnt himself on a hot pan on Thursday night.
I heard the clatter, his shout, rushed towards the kitchen - stopped. I changed my mind and scooped Jamie up from the playpen first.
When I lifted up Jamie, something seemed to pass across his face for a moment. One of those strange seconds where I could see what he’d be like as a man.
“Why are you doing this Mama? It’s wrong,” he would say, if he could talk. Babies always think they know best.
Patrick was standing by the sink, running water over his hand. Shoulders hunched. Stressed, from the lines of his body, the way he held himself, muttering.
“Patrick?” I asked, tentatively. He whipped round immediately.
“Just fuck off Sarah!” he snapped, then realized Jamie was there, in the kitchen with us. He didn’t apologise, but there was disappointment in his eyes. At himself.
The offending pan was lying on the floor, face down, vibrant splashes up the sides of the kitchen counters and between us.
“Did you drop the pan?” I asked. I hated myself for being so on edge, when it’s him that’s unfair.
He crossed the kitchen and I flinched aside, letting him leave. When I’d put Jamie to bed I scrubbed and scrubbed the mess away. The entire kitchen, until the pale tiles were all beautiful again.
Finished, I squatted on my hands and knees, panting as if I were a runner. The blood throbbed in my skull. My arms ached. When I slid into bed beside him, quietly, it was late.
The next morning, despite my late night, I woke earlier than both him and Jamie. I rose quickly. I needed to check his car. God knows what I’d find.
It was a bitterly cold morning and I regretted not throwing on a coat before coming outside. Opening his car, I looked at everything closely, then closer again. I knew exactly what I was looking for, because I’d seen it all before.
By the time I’d triple checked, it was time to go inside and make breakfast. This morning there was nothing to find, and I was temporarily grateful for that.
There would be something eventually.
*
I could blame my father I suppose. But how can I blame someone I’ve never met? No, your Honour, I did not know the aforementioned man. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out in an identity parade.
There is no mitigating circumstance here.
My father knew I existed; he just didn’t want me. I learnt from his aversion at a very young age that it doesn’t matter what you do - you are not special.
Having a father who would even be a so-called weekend dad seemed as improbable as – well - Patrick learning to clean up after himself.
They say women like me grow up with “Daddy issues”. As if we are the ones with issues. As if it’s somehow our fault and we are to blame for our fathers not giving a shit. They should talk about the fathers’ “bastard issues” instead.
My mother didn’t care whether I had a father or not. To this day I can’t decide whether it was from some form of narcissism that she kept me - she wanted a baby so therefore she deserved one. Or whether she just couldn’t be bothered to get an abortion.
Psychologists may one day go on to analyse me and say that all of my issues stemmed from my absent father, and my cold bitch of a mother. I think that would be oversimplifying.
I’m sure psychologists would also phrase it differently, but I am bad at choosing men. I’m attracted to traits that don’t translate well to being a good partner. I like men who seem confident, which then becomes arrogant. Adventurous and worldly becomes flighty and easily bored. Competent and fearless - cold and indifferent.
*
I was working in Patrick’s law firm - covering a secretary’s maternity leave - when I met him. To my everlasting shame, it seemed like I’d never quite manage to progress into a permanent position. Something else that my mother delighted in pointing out to me time and time again.
“I don’t know why you don’t just give up and become a normal secretary. Being a legal secretary is obviously not working for you. You’ve temped constantly ever since you completed your qualifications. What a waste!” she would say, not hiding the glee in her voice the slightest bit.
I’d look at the carpet. She’d continue. “I don’t know why you even bothered with those qualifications. A total waste of time and money.”
“You old bitch.” I’d think, without fail. But I’d never say these words to her aloud, and would still visit her even though she was always horrible to me. Analyse that too if you want.
I digress. Patrick’s razor-sharp intelligence gave him the most incredible wit. He was so polite and well-mannered without seeming a show-off. I couldn’t get enough of him at first. I was like the proverbial little piggy. Finally, a decent man. The partner I’d always been looking for.
We’ve been married for six years now. We had been married for just shy of a year when the first time happened. Patrick had been distant, fidgety, for a good few weeks. I had my suspicions all right. I trawled through his emails, his phone. Nothing incriminating.
At long last, while he was sleeping, thanks to my Googling “what to do if you suspect your partner may be cheating,” I searched his car. How cliched. It was a mess. A horrible, unspeakable mess.
When Patrick finally woke up, hours later, I was standing at the end of the bed. Watching him.
“I want you to tell me who she is.” I said, through gritted teeth. My fists were clenched. I was shaking.
Patrick sat up properly. I was annoyed by how long he seemed to be taking to wake up in the presence of my rage.
“Sarah -” he said.
“Don’t fucking Sarah me,” I hissed. I leant towards him; he flinched.
“I have just spent the last three hours cleaning out your car. Our car. There was fucking blood everywhere.” I spat. “Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of upholstery?”
He just looked stunned. I continued.
“I’m not going to go to the police Patrick. But tell me why. What does this bitch have that I don’t have, that makes you want to – no, need to - kill her in our car?”
Patrick gulped. He was very lucky he didn’t start to cry, or I would have totally lost it. I might even have killed him. He still didn’t answer, and I stepped even closer to him.
“Oh, look there’s Sarah’s husband, out on a killing spree even though he’s got a perfectly good wife he could have murdered at home!” I screamed. Then I started to cry.
Something in his face changed, from shocked to understanding. At last he spoke, put his arm around me.
“I – I can’t explain it Sarah. Even to myself. It’s like an impulse I can’t control.” He looked up. His eyes met mine. “I don’t want to kill you because I love you. You’re not like other women. You’re special.”
My heart swelled and my red raw hands suddenly seemed worth it.
*
We never spoke much about anything to do with his strange hobby again, but over time, things settled into more of a routine.
Hydrogen peroxide became my new best friend. It’s perfect for getting bloodstains out, even the most dried-in ones. And most other bodily fluids. Spit, semen, you name it.
Maybe it could be unfairly portrayed as if I enabled him. As if I would ever encourage him! It just seemed logical to me, that if he were going to go ahead and do it anyway, he might as well be sensible.
I started slipping little extra touches into the car after my routine cleans. Disposable gloves and shoe covers. A large washing up bowl and clean clothes so he could change next to the car and not trail blood and guts through our home.
A few times, I noticed he was running low on cable ties, so I picked up some more while I was out doing the weekly shop. Likewise with bin bags. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have my occasional moments of irritation here and there.
A remainder would affect me more than it should. From these leftovers, it was quite easy to paint a picture of the women, from their over-bright lipstick smeared all over whatever cloth had been shoved into their mouths to shut up their screams (which I’d then bleach and wash on 90 degrees), to the tacky dyed hairs that I’d hoover up with my mini car vacuum (wonderful device) before burning within the disposable hoover bag itself.
Whenever those moments of irritation came, I’d simply take a deep breath, and focus on what I did have. I had Jamie for one. I don’t think Patrick ever really wanted children, but to be honest after that first grisly discovery how could he deny me anything?
You can kidnap and maim multiple women, or you can deny me the gift of motherhood. Not both. So that was a positive. Plus, I had a husband who found me simply irreplaceable.
I know he was in awe of and appreciated all my efforts. I even put air freshener in the car, which I changed on a weekly basis, to cover up that horrible scent of terror and death. What other wife would be so accepting of his strange habits?
I’m fully aware, of course, that one day I might get sloppy. I am human after all. I might miss something. Basic error. I might be older, and have worse vision. Maybe one day, I’ll even just say: enough is enough.
I’ll stop cleaning up the evidence. Stop covering for him. Then he may well get caught. I’m sure if he did, I would be interviewed. I have quite a nice interview outfit picked out actually. Sombre colours, but also a chucked-on casual vibe, as if I haven’t planned it.
In the interview, they’ll probably ask me if I ever had my own suspicions. The old chestnuts. Was he ever violent or threatening to me, did he exhibit any strange behaviours? Did he ever let slip about anything?
Of course, I will deny everything.
I’ll deny and deny and deny until I am blue in the face. Rather like one of the bodies I saw in the car boot a month ago, a shoelace still garrotted around her neck, the poor cow. I’d rolled my eyes, shut the boot and gone inside.
“Patrick,” I’d said, sighing and walking into the kitchen where he was having his coffee. He can’t ever quite get going in the morning without a coffee.
“Can you let me know when you’ve got rid of it please? I can’t clean properly until it’s gone. I mean, I could try and sort of clean around it a bit, but …”
I’d raised my eyebrows. He’d got my meaning straight away.
He stood up, quickly finished his coffee. “Sure. I’ll go now.”
“Thanks love.” I said. “Make sure you’re back in time to take Jamie to his swimming lesson.”
He kissed me. “Will do.”
So yes, if I stopped covering for him, he might get caught. I’m sure if I feigned ignorance enough, I could even garner some sympathy. I’d be that poor woman.
After all, I’ve given my heart and soul to my husband. I said my wedding vows in front of guests and witnesses, and by God I meant them. But I cannot and I will not do time for him. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.
(c) Rosa Muller, 2020
Rosa Müller graduated with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. Seven years, a German husband, unrelated jobs and two daughters later, she’s decided to “actually do something writing related”. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a novel.
Annalie Wilson trained at Webber Douglas on the Lilian Baylis scholarship. Theatre credits include Garance in Les Enfants Du Paradis (Arcola), Eve in Closure (Theatre 53 & Riverside Studios), Katherina in The Taming of the Shrew (Marlowe Theatre Canterbury), Little Shop of Horrors and Emilia in Othello (Bloomsbury). Annalie is also an award-winning singer, songwriter and musician, and has composed music for stage and screen. She is currently performing and releasing as Luna Bec.
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