The Present

‘She is a lady, I assume.’ Ruth Billings screamed behind her, at
the back seat of her car. ‘And not one of those bloody lady boys.’
She stared spitefully into the rear view mirror. ‘Like the ones in
the films you tried, so hard, to hide from me. Pathetic.’

Well. Actually, she was screaming it through the back seat,
into the boot. That was where the body of her late husband now
lay, motionless, gagged and trussed.

All reason had left her now. The only break in her ranting came
when she spat hateful, false laughter towards him.
The tears had long since been dried up by white hot, boiling rage.
Her white knuckles ground tightly on the steering wheel, as they
travelled on together.
No man would ever feel a soft caress from them again. Not now
that they have another’s blood on them. Tainted flesh.

But, she no longer cared. It was worth it.

It was earlier that morning that she had found them.
A pair of French knickers and a camisole top.
She had never worn anything like that in her life before, so she
knew it couldn’t have been intended for her.
As she threw them across the breakfast table at him, he had tried
to splutter out, what she was sure, would have been a wonderfully
farcical excuse for them mysteriously appearing there.
Cleverly concealed in the glove box of his car. The very one that
they were now travelling in. The vessel of his secrets, was soon to
be the casket in which he would meet his final watery fate.

That was when she struck the first blow.
The attack that followed, seemed like a frenzied blur. What she
would later recount as, ‘A moment of madness.’

Her destination was nearing.

How could she have been so stupid? So naïve.
These were all the thoughts going through her spinning head.
The signs were all there.
Suddenly attentive, after years of neglect, for want of a better word.
Not in a bitter or spiteful way. Just not showing enough attention.
Never sharing thoughts or feelings. Not distant, but, never quite there
either. She had always suspected that that was what most men were
like, never having any experience in the opposite sex, other than her
husband, but had always hoped to be proved wrong one day.

‘Well! You’re certainly distant now, you cheating bastard.’

She slowly pulled the car into the secluded headland. It was quiet at
this time of night. All the romantics out there, having already been
and gone. Coming to try to catch a glimpse of the setting sun, as it
descends into the depths, as will their relationships eventually.
Nothing lasts forever.

A low level picket fence was all that separated them from the wild,
crashing waves of the stormy sea, some three hundred feet below
them. Though, it wouldn’t be ‘them’ that would enter it. This was to
be a solo journey, for her dearly departed.

Moving to the rear of the vehicle, she let out a huge sigh of relief, as
she pressed the button to release the door to the boot.

The sight inside repulsed her.

Not the body, bruised and battered, covered in the results of a fevered
bloodlust. Its tongue protruding from a mouth distended in horror and
realisation.

No. What repulsed her, was the fact that, even in death, his eyes stared
blankly at her. Giving nothing.
Those eyes that had now strayed to whomever the recipient of the silk
underwear was that she now found her hand gripping, in the pocket of
his jacket that she wore, having taken it off the back of the dining chair,
when she moved the body to the car.
She had forgotten that she was wearing it, after putting it on to fight the
cold night air.

‘I hope she was worth it.’ She slammed the door hard, which gave it
just enough momentum to send the car on its way over the edge.

The roar of the wind in such an exposed place drowned out the sound
of the car hitting the water below, but there was no doubt it had.
She felt a warmth embrace her, even in the conditions in which she now
stood, wind swept, but loving it.

Moving away, she placed both hands into the pockets of the jacket.
That was when she found it.
An envelope.
Taking it out, she opened it and stared, dropping to her knees in the wet
grass.
Inside were two tickets to Paris for a romantic weekend.
As the tickets dropped from the open card, she read the message written
within.

Dear Ruth

I know that I haven’t always been what you might call
‘a hopeless romantic’, but I’m going to change, starting
from today.

Happy Anniversary

P.S There’s a little something in the glove compartment
of the car. It’s supposed to be a joke present, for our time
in France.
Hope you find it amusing.

All she could do was cry.