Night Killer

Last night I killed a man. His severed head is in a shoebox under my bed, nestling there among the dust bunnies and lost socks.

I've been looking for my husband, so I can tell him what happened, but he is nowhere to be found. I've looked but he's not in the house anywhere. I opened the patio doors but he's not in the garden. The door to the shed is closed; the key to the padlock is on the table by the door. I can see it without turning my head. I close the patio door and shuffle along the passage towards the front door.

I struggle with the catch but eventually, with a twist, the lock clicks and the door swings open. A blast of icy air nips at my ankles.

I am on the step looking out. Our car stands frozen on the drive, the windows cracked with ice. He is not out here. The step is cold; there is no trace of anyone having stood here in a long while. The leaves on the trees shiver. I close the door.

I lean back against the door and press my head against its coolness.
Where can he be?
There is a knot forming in the pit of my belly. I can taste my own fear, metallic like blood in my mouth. My heart is starting to pound. My breath is coming in tight little gasps. I can feel my panic rising like bile in my throat. I slide down the door onto the cold floor, the hallway swimming hotly before my eyes. I try to shake my head to clear my vision and, somewhere in the distance, I think I hear him calling me. I try to turn my head towards the sound but it is too late. Everything is black and still.

It is light when I wake up. I am in my bed. My arms are stretched above my head. They feel frozen, from the elbow down to the tips of my fingers. I bring them into the warmth of the duvet where they lie chilling the skin of my belly and I feel the goose bumps rise as one part of my body exchanges heat for the cold of other parts.

I allow myself to glance at the pillow beside mine. It is empty. There is the familiar indent where his head lay. I reach out. It is a cold space. All traces of his warmth have fled.
I listen to the sounds of the house. It breathes and moves. In winter it is a wheezy old man with aching bones that grind and creak. In the summer months, it is a child, bubbling with energy. From somewhere below my bed the soft sounds of muted television voices rise to greet my straining ears.
"Sweetie I call softly.
"You awake? comes the reply.
I smile as I snuggle under the duvet, listening to his footfalls on the stairs, knowing his head will appear above the banister rail any second now.

Last night I killed a man. I placed his severed head in a shoebox, and kicked it under my bed. I forgot everything after that. I couldn't see his face anymore, I still can't, but I was looking for my husband to tell him what had happened when the police came and arrested me.

The police told me they knew I had done it. They wanted me to tell them how I did it and where I hid the body.
"What body? I asked. I knew nothing about a body. I did know about the head in the shoebox under the bed, but I was trying to forget about that, and so I said nothing.
"Do you know where my husband is? I asked an officer. He stared at me.
"You tell me, he said.
"I would if I knew, I told him, "Why do you think I asked you where is my husband? Why would I do that if I knew the answer?
He rolled his eyes and nudged his colleague.
"I am not crazy, I protested.
"Of course you're not love, he said kindly. "No one said you were now, did they?
I gave up and sat down, resting my head in my hands. I just wanted to speak to my husband. Why couldn't they understand?

All around me police were buzzing, their radios crackling with secret messages. Their feet made noise running up and down the stairs. I wondered what the neighbours must think, and then I thought fuck the neighbours. I never liked them much anyway.

Four officers stood over me. They formed a tower of navy blue. They were angry, I could tell. They kept probing, asking question after stupid question about bodies¦

"The van is here a voice called from outside in the street.
It was still early and the street was cold and quiet. It was a vicious morning and they wanted me to leave my home and go and answer more of their stupid questions. I began to cry.
A man put his hand on my arm. I lashed out at him.
"Leave me alone! I screamed.
Something hit me on the temple. When I opened my eyes, I was in my bed, alone. The sound of television voices drifted up from below.
"Sweetie? I called¦.

Last night I killed a man. Stuffed his head in a shoebox and kicked it under the bed. The police questioned me at length and then let me go. No evidence you see. Of course, I didn't tell them to look under the bed.

I looked for my husband; I wanted to tell him what had happened, warn him that they might come back, that I might have to go away somewhere. I didn't want to have to tell him that the somewhere was prison. Still I had to tell him something. First, I had to find him. I didn't bother looking in the house; somehow, I knew he wouldn't be there. He wasn't in the garden either, nor in the, still-locked-key-hanging-by-the- door, shed. He wasn't out the front, although the car was still on the drive. I knew that he wasn't too far away. The neighbours' kitchen window was open, maybe he had gone there. He did that sometimes, went next door to chat about football to the fat guy who scratched and pulled at his crotch while you talked to him. I said it was disgusting but my husband said it was 'a guy thing' and the man probably didn't even realise he was doing it. I said it was about time someone let him know so he could stop it. My husband just laughed and told me to leave it be.

So I walked up the neighbours' path and rapped on the door with the huge brass knocker. The door swung open. The hallway was warm and smelled of biscuits. There was that ever- present chemical odour of the air freshener she used to disguise the stench of cat shit. They had a house cat, a scaredy cat, the kind that would sit outside all day and run into the house to take a dump. They trained that cat all wrong if you ask me.

I called out, hello, hello? I made my voice louder but still nobody answered me. The living room door was open and I crept to the doorway and peered into the room. The television screen was flickering; some old black and white movie from yesteryear was playing with the sound turned off. There was nobody in the house. My husband clearly wasn't here¦unless he was upstairs. Why would he be upstairs? There are only bedrooms upstairs. Surely he isn't shagging the neighbours? Why would he? I begin the climb to the first floor landing. All the doors up here are closed and there is no sound. The house screams empty. I turn and leave, closing the street door behind me.

I stand on my own front path and scour the streets with my eyes. I want to call out for my husband to come home. I want to yell his name so loudly he can't fail to hear me. But I don't. Instead, I go back inside and close the door. I sit in the lounge, on the edge of the sofa, sitting with my ankles crossed and my hands folded neatly in my lap. I wait.

There is a knock at the door. I jump up, run to the door and fling it wide, my arms outstretched. The police officer standing on the doorstep doesn't smile.
"We want to look round again he tells me and pushes past. Before I know it, he is on his knees in my bedroom, reaching his fingers through the dust bunnies under my bed. He pulls out a stray sock, a stripy one with red toes and heels. He waves it in the air for a second and then discards it with a disgusted tut. He leans further under the bed, which has swallowed his arm up to the shoulder. His face is growing red with effort. Then I hear it. His fingernails make contact with the shoebox. There is a scrabbling sound as it tries to escape, but he is a policeman and he gets it and holds it tight.
"We know what's in here don't we? he says grinning. There is a trail of sticky red blood running down the side of the box. I would have expected it to dry to dark rust by now. Shows how little I know. I really wasn't cut out to be a killer. The policeman reaches out and grabs my arm.
"Let's have a little look see shall we? his face is cracking with barely suppressed glee. He pushes my face nearer to the box and flips off the lid.
I look into my husband's face. I hear the scream rip from my throat. I try to escape, but two strong hands hold me fast.
"Honey¦
It is my husband. I have found him.