AMELIA

I always knew that I could never save Amelia from bloodshed. But I had no idea she’d attract the attention of so many bullets. There she stands with her usual affronted look, fully aware of the awful clash of her newly acquired crimson perforations and her blue pinny. Yet what can I do...it’s the only pinny she has. I seem to have taken her by surprise, in fact I’m not even sure that Amelia realises the seriousness of her situation. I could perhaps move closer and whisper in her ear? On second thoughts that might be unwise - she may well take a swipe at me with her remaining strength.
She’s swaying a bit. Flapping her thickly made up eyelashes with her well practised “What have you been up to now?” scowl on her pale face. Quite strange, because it must be obvious what has happened. I believe it’s a sort of “Titanic” mentality; she’s holed in many places, the pumps are failing yet my coiffured captain staring out from the bridge, can’t believe that she is going down. I’m starting to have a few doubts myself. She’s teetering so defiantly, pinny soaked, dripping blood onto her bland cream coloured shoes (I find the red blotches a distinct improvement).
Another curious thing - she hasn’t spoken a word since the last shot! Amelia’s mouth is always full of words; admonitions cast in my directions, frequent shopping lists, gossip about the neighbours, reminiscences of her tweezy childhood, outright insults concerning my appearance, brutal condemnations of anything she doesn’t like, dovetailed with saccharine superlatives for anything she does, rusty calculations, crusty assassinations of everyone who crosses her, petty quibbling, uninformed diatribes, whipped cream commentaries, super fluid conclusions (usually wrong), a cornucopia of recipes (one or two poisonous), a martyr’s lexicon when describing our marriage, an axe man’s abruptness if asked about my character, solace for ailing pussy cats, eulogies for dead hamsters, biblical lamentations regarding her vacant womb, lacerating summaries of my culpability for her childless misery, chromatic cursing at even the slightest set back to her plans, whiplash accusations when speaking of my complete incompetence in all spheres of existence this side of the grave. Her chameleon tongue can salami even the sturdiest spirits with frightening ease.
Now she is ominously still. Her glare is of such granite texture, I’m beginning to wonder who is the wounded party? Now I’m very well aware that in the morning (even after coffee) I’m not at my best. But I couldn’t possibly have missed. I fired straight, urged on by frustration grimly accumulated during the Dark Ages of our relationship, and that pool of cooling blood spreading around her is surely a give away. I find it rather embarrassing, having taken so much trouble to dispose of my wife, that she should now refuse to die. Typical Amelia of course, always getting her own way, even now in her new experience of terminal leakage, she must have the last say.
The in-congruency of the situation is not lost on our cat Clementine, who pads cautiously into the kitchen to find out what all the fuss is about. Her jet black fur bristles as she sniffs suspiciously around the sticky mess on the floor. Her vivid jade eyes darting first to Amelia, then to me perceiving, with infallible pussy cat intuition, that this is definitely not the right time to ask for her milk. She leaves us as would a disillusioned art lover, two unworthy statues of a forgotten period.
Amelia continues her stoical denial of the grave situation, her Pisa like equilibrium defying all logic. Anyone else would have long since crumpled to heap of dead tissue, fit only for the carrion nit picking of forensic experts. What is keeping her up? Sheer force of habit? An obstinacy beyond all understanding? By my rough calculation at least half of her blood volume must have spilled overboard by now, which means that the rest must be pretty thinly spread. Her eyes give nothing away - not a flinch or a flicker. Could it be I wonder, that Amelia is one of those rare creatures who can be deceased yet remain upright? I believe Elizabeth the First died in such a way - kept everyone waiting for hours.
One strategic prod with the floor mop handle will decide the issue. I hold back, hesitating. It seems somehow to add insult to injury. Shooting bullets into someone is one thing, poking them with a big stick is quite another. Just as impolite as making a cup of tea, or watching the television until I hear the telling thud.
Perhaps Amelia isn’t in the mood for dying? I’m sure it’s not on her list of “must do” things for today. For all her organisational prowess, Amelia is not very good at dealing with unexpected set backs. Either that or she simply can’t believe my audacity in a, having a gun and b, pointing at her while I was firing it. Not to mention disfiguring her pinny so brutally. It’s one of her most prized possessions, being an exact replica of the garment worn by our local butcher Mr.Chillings, whose lamb chops are the talk of the town, as was his frantic affair some time ago with a headmaster’s wife. She lived two streets further up, round shouldered, thick ankled, heavily into Tupperware parties and Devil Worship. I could easily imagine her leading a delirious group of equally middle aged, loose breasted ladies dancing in a naked frenzy, brandishing indestructible milk jugs and salad bowls around a bewildered Beelzebub!

And still she stares,defiant to the last...whenever that will be. The same look as on our wedding day. I should have realised then that my future would be shark infested. The blurry vision of love? Yes I was actually once in love with Amelia. In a younger time of marginal beauty and intrepid facial hair, we blundered into each others arms. Amelia was,I believed, the epitome of refinement, albeit laced with a sternness which my testicular impetuousness was prepared to ignore. I had no idea of the template for cruelty which lay beneath. In one gulp of insanity we were newly weds, in one gasp of dismay I realised my mistake.
A fine cook, accomplished seamstress, I knew my belly and socks would be treated decently. Her hair was beautiful, a corn gold sea ebbing and flowing as she moved. Her porcelain blue eyes were harbours of capability rather than compassion, matching her solid countenance, lightened sparsely by a snap of humour. She would sway occasionally with elemental harmony, nose finely contoured, her neck the envy of many a swan, then just as easily assume an Alpine intransigence, complete with snowy aloofness. Slowly, insidiously, receding prettiness, waning youth, plus an ever thickening layer of mascara muddied Amour’s clear waters. The open road of passion upon which we were travelling proved to be a cul-de-sac, gradually forming into a place of remembrance for fallen desire. So it is when love infarcts, lurching tired and broken towards the grave. As Eros moved on to more fertile ground Amelia and I, first through spontaneous outbursts, then with more premeditated verbal assaults, tip-toed towards our respective purgatories - hers at the sniper’s post, mine in the shifting bunker of contingency, reasoning that a moving target had more chance of survival. Through futile peace treaties and dead of night betrayals, we clattered down love’s exalted staircase to the grimy basement of mutual detestation, a greasy emulsion of habit and dismal calculation our only bond.
Why did we not end the misery with a simple divorce? Ah...that is where the Serpent found his true victory. Steeped in knowledge, witness to our foundering, the black capped instigator of my ultimate despair began hissing ancient pledges into Amelia’s willing ear drum. I was confronted with a rigid faith, a faultless God, an unbending Church and a merciless vow - my only defence a rag bag of logic and circumstance. Amelia’s Catholic indulgence having been thwarted on the playing field of procreation unfolded, in the private chamber of our sporadic intercourse, a terrifying revenge.
Amelia would plague, pillory, subjugate, infuriate, undermine success, exaggerate defeat, devastate my character between mouthfuls of peppermint creams, proclaim to the Heavens a whole laundry list of my bad habits, assail anyone within carping range with tales of my dilapidated bodily functions, unleash with tortuous regularity, a pack of rabid dog anecdotes concerning my small minded stubbornness, thrill at my embarrassment, laugh at my hair style, bemoan my weakness for Liquorice Allsorts, confront me at every corner with the dismal result of my sperm count, in short, make a mockery of love, sex, affection and my cherished collection of Beano comics, plunge me into the deepest level of domestic Hell, but never for one nanosecond consider divorce!
I toyed with the idea of unilateral desertion; a stealthy moonlight flit to a new life of full beard, stripy trousers, sunglasses and outrageous shoes. Cleansing my lungs of Amelia’s choking perfume, stepping boldly out to the sunlit uplands of moderate optimism. My nebulous hopes were promptly crushed by the certain knowledge that Amelia would search me out with the determination of a chain saw killer, shred my clothes of freedom, batter me into some mongrel reconciliation then, for once and all time, set my misery in stone!
With escape no option destruction became the only alternative - hers or mine. Suicide peered around the bedroom door once in a while, beaconing me to the bathroom with its jumbled assortment of pills and razor blades, reminding of that loose bedroom window through which one might easily fall, inviting me to the shed, demonstrating the efficiency of a makeshift noose and a high strong beam or, if preferred, any number of motorised vehicles to dive in front of.
With sincere apologies I declined his offer, concluding that Amelia’s demise was the better choice. The question then arose of how to do it?
Strangulation?
A gruesome picture formed in my mind of Amelia’s tongue lolling to and fro like a fat ruby slug, slapping from puffy cheek to cheek, eyes blazing defiance as I vainly try to crush her bony windpipe beneath my inadequate thumbs. I would surely loose my nerve, and in such a life or death contest of arm wrestling, Amelia could beat me every time. Worse still she might during her choking recovery, decide to demonstrate on my own scrawny neck just how it should be done!
Poison?
A reasonable option were it not for Amelia’s super sensitive palate. I’m sure that one part per million of anything which wasn’t absolutely kosher, would raise her suspicions.
Stabbing?’
Good God no! Far to intimate and messy! Amelia’s spittle on my cheek after a perfunctory morning kiss was awful enough, never mind great gouts of her blood sloshing down to my underwear!
I debated for a while about a blunt instrument. The idea of bashing Amelia’s skull to a pulp brightened many of my days. There was a length of timber in the shed perfect for the job. Club her clotted brains out while she was snoring in bed, crack her brain-pan in the same carefree way she smashed egg shells at breakfast or, better still, wait until she returned from one of her marathon visits to Madam Pontins Salon, her hair perfectly permed then “Thwack!” add a thick layer of crimson to her scaly locks!
But no...brute force, though tempting is not my style. Nudge her out of a train...heave her out of the upstairs window...smother her roughly rouged cheeks with a pillow? All too unpredictable. What I needed was something distant yet deadly. A gun seemed the obvious choice...I’m hopeless with a bow and arrow.
Simple enough you’d think, purchase a sturdy weapon, aim and shoot. For an army sergeant drilling raw recruits nothing out of the ordinary, but for a shaky, until recently, pacifist as myself unused to homicide, an entirely different matter. One thing was certain - the assassination must not be botched. A wounded Amelia would be a seriously dangerous beast. Preparation was the key, so I secretly joined a shooting club. The details are tedious, suffice to say that, in a remarkably short time, ( I was after all a willing student) I learned from an instructor who’s face reminded me of a portrait of Charles the First, how to aim, how to shoot and, innocent of my dark motive, how to kill.
With my new skills and a shiny, perfectly legal, pistol secured in a secret corner of the shed, I concentrated on my agenda. Which was the best day to commit murder? During the week?...very inconvenient, considering my natural desire to escape prosecution. A mid-week crime gave me too little time for a decent getaway, as my absence from work would be quickly noticed. Saturday or Sunday then...to dispose of such a concentrated catholic as Amelia on God’s day of rest seemed very impolite...so Saturday was my choice. A weekend with no appointments or commitments when my Amelia could lay, unfound, for a day or two while I made a rapid escape to the continent and anonymity. I would be out of the country before she was even cold.
Where does one shoot one’s wife...in the bedroom?...to melodramatic.
The living room?...too cluttered. The bathroom? Amelia in curlers and shocking pink dressing gown, sprawled across the cool beige tiles as in the first page of a three-penny who-done-it? No...too much of a cliché. The kitchen seemed the appropriate enough. Amelia dispatched between the waste disposal and the microwave, staring obliquely at an egg whisk still clutched in her hand...or something like that.
The timing was crucial - before or after breakfast? Regarding the anarchic consequences of the deed, after appeared the obvious option...if I was to be a fugitive, better one with a full stomach. Time place and motive...tie it all with a pink ribbon and leave it on a shelf, to be taken down when the mood suited...wait...wait some more...then one day...

I was remarkably calm upon waking this morning...focused I believe it is called. I showered,dressed without a twitch of nerves. I greeted Amelia (attired in a floral dress and spotless pinny) sat opposite her at the breakfast table, munched politely upon toast and soft boiled eggs, sipped Premium tea and nodded timely at her morning gabble, with an air of normality deserving an Oscar. At the height of this domestic scene a weird thought occurred to me - this was Amelia’s last meal, her last moments of life. For the first time in our marriage I had power over her...the power of life or death. It was an awesome insight. I could decide the exact second of her death...count down to her last breath. She was my misery, my persecutor and now, in a knee jerk of circumstance, my victim. One valiant blow would silence those mutilating lips (butter dribbling down) blind those merciless eyes, finally halt the juggernaut of domination...just wait a little longer.
Amelia babbled on unaware of her peril. I tapped my finger patiently,
thinking...what goes through the mind of a killer? There, already a new thought...myself a criminal. Spotless to the very last moment constable... never harmed a fly...a passive, flawless existence your honour.
“Come sir, you must have thought something staring, cold eyed, at the poor creature you were about to liquidate. Callously preparing to steal the very breath from her lips you cur! Spit it out man, your last evil calculation!”
Honestly dear judge, my mind was a blank, an open space of neutrality fit for children’s games or senior citizen strolls. But I knew sir that I was firm...very firm!

Breakfast devoured I went to the shed, retrieved my pistol then waited calmly in the doorway of the kitchen. Amelia was occupied at the sink, her back to me, an easy target but hardly sporting...no...I would wait until she faced me. The gun was sweaty and impatient in my hand. An irritating murmur of premature remorse reminded me that I could easily back out, replace the weapon and carry on in mutated normalcy...retire to my trench of resigned contemplation...distance myself in some other way from my wife’s animosity...escape to a desert island in my mind...a tranquil sun blessed haven beyond the reach of household hysteria. The murmur became a cry, the cry became a shout...twitching my toes...shirt clammy against my skin...swaying...turning...Amelia’s off tune singing a hideous counterpoint...transforming cool, calm, firm into a globular cluster of panic. Shivering...rattling...pulling my face away...the pistol trembling...crumpling in despair...lost... lost. Amelia turning...eyes glaring...my arm jerking forward...my finger...a fatal spasm...twitch, twitch, twitch until the gun clicked impotently, spent of all force!

And here I am with “exhibit A” still smoking in my hand, Amelia resolutely upright, challenging
my sanity. Confounded woman, fall down damn you! Assume the position of every murder victim in history!
Ach...it’s no use...Amelia never did listen to me, and now she’s far too absorbed in her new hobby...not only defying my wishes but those of gravity as well. How can I cover her if she does not fall? Her eyes are filled with malice...daring me to run away like a frightened child awaiting parental wrath. Her motives are even darker than my own, undermining my countenance...could I be mistaken...am I imagining all this? In bed perhaps, fantasising about what might happen or I’m already on the run, remembering what took place?
It never happened.
It is already past.
The truth is on the tip of Amelia’s stilled tongue. Perhaps the bullets came my way...could she be waiting for me to fall? If Amelia won’t die then I cannot live. So easily are tables turned. A few moments ago she was my victim, now I am hers...our future a rainbow coloured soap bubble bobbing upon an eternal breeze, waiting to pop. A final twist in our relationship - Amelia the proud, defiant statue, a posy of blood red roses around her feet; I the penitent observer, forever waiting...forever hoping...forever wondering...