Who Killed Anne-Marie? Read online

  Whilst he waits in line to pay, he practises what he will say if the cashier asks if he is having a party, eyeing up the excessive amount of snacks and alcohol. He did go a little overboard, but he can’t be bothered to put anything back. He plans to say something jolly like: “Yes, I am having a little family get together, ha ha, of course you can come ha ha!” Something like that. Luckily, today the cashier is disinterested, only looks at him briefly, to check he is over the legal drinking age and goes back to scanning his goods. The thing Daniel misses most is human interaction; no one has spoken to him today, no one has smiled at him, it has been months since his last hug.

  On the bright side … He is tired of looking on the fucking bright side, of pretending everything is just fine. Of having to tiptoe around in his own house, of trying to figure out what to do or what to say. He doesn’t want to go home to more silence. In desperation, he takes a detour, to pick up two fish and chip meals. He tells himself that it’s just in case she is hungry when he gets back, that he is too tired to cook today, that it’s not so he can hear a friendly voice. The woman behind the fish shop counter can always be counted on for a genuine smile and a “How are you sweetheart?”

  He will never get a “How are you sweetheart?” from the stony face that watches him unload the car. The face belonging to their neighbour, Mrs Ludmilla Bryski. Anne-Marie has a different name for her, Lady Bitchski. So many times Daniel has arrived home to Anne-Marie rambling on about the Bitchski next door, at a volume they both know Ludmilla can hear. Or the muttered allegations against her “creepy” husband Paul. Daniel has tried to say that Paul is just old-fashioned but apparently that meant he was on Paul’s side and they were all disgusting creeps. Daniel is reduced now to just giving Paul an embarrassed, apologetic smile and avoiding any other form of contact.

  Anne-Marie hates all their neighbours, but Ludmilla next door and Penelope “Lying Penny” at number ten are the worst. The feelings are mutual. Daniel originally liked Ludmilla, she had welcomed them to the neighbourhood with home-made cookies and they had been on friendly terms for a short while. Daniel saw her as the Grandma he never had. But then too many sleepless nights, too many empty bottles carelessly flung into Ludmilla’s pristine garden, too many shouted insults, then adding in the not-quite-true but juicy rumours spread by Lying Penny, had considerably soured their friendly neighbour. Daniel didn’t think it was his problem that Ludmilla was a light sleeper, who woke up at the slightest bit of noise. In the last row, he had tiredly snapped that maybe Ludmilla should consider moving her bed away from their connecting wall, or maybe she could try ear plugs, or maybe she could try shutting her face. Ludmilla then made it very clear that Daniel and Anne-Marie Mills would never again be welcomed into her home, and Anne-Marie made it very clear that Ludmilla Bryski was welcome to go to hell. Daniel now pretends he can’t see the Bitchski watching him, judging him, and hurries back inside.

  The house is quiet, and he unpacks the shopping quickly, not wanting the fish and chips to go cold. Maybe he should go upstairs, ask her if she wants anything, but what if she has gone back to sleep? She would be angry if he woke her. Daniel is sure other husbands don’t have this problem, they don’t spend their days in a constant dread of their wives. He doesn’t want to disturb her, doesn’t want to share, his conscience guiltily whispers.

  Wearily, he settles in front of the telly, both plates and a tepid beer balanced on the side table, the rest of the pack and some post-match snacks cooling nicely in the now-full fridge. He tries to relax and stop thinking. Tries to stop listening for the door upstairs to open, waiting for the next confrontation with dread.

  Daniel is a simple man, who just wants a simple life, a quiet life.

  Chapter Two

  Anne-Marie breathes in, inhaling the overpowering stench of stale bacon. She had woken up feeling tired and sick and this is making it worse. It means that Daniel is awake and he is in the kitchen. She can’t face him right now, can’t face anything right now, not right now. Later, she promises to herself as she lies back down and closes her eyes, willing both the smell and Daniel to go away. But even that slightest movement makes her head scream in pain. A throbbing urgency emanates from her bladder, forcing her to struggle out from the unforgiving bed.

  Pain, so much pain, from her head to her lower back, even to her toes.

  Downstairs Daniel eats on, not caring the slightest bit. The smell of his breakfast clings to her as she falls into the bathroom, struggling to close the door behind her, she sits. Her hands supporting her too heavy head. She can hear Daniel clattering downstairs. You would think that her loud flight to the bathroom would bring on some support, that he would bring her something for her head, some painkillers, a glass of water or even something simple like some tea and toast. Something that would take very little effort, but no; even if she asks, she would only get a long whine about how there is no food in the house because SHE didn’t go shopping when SHE promised. He would go on and on, moaning about nothing. It is not her fault, she hasn’t been well. He just doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how easy it is to lose track of everything.

  She tries over and over to lift herself from the toilet, her body bursting with pain. Finally she manages, clutching the wall in an attempt to stay up. She lurches out of the bathroom into the hall, keeping her eyes firmly averted from the mirror. She wants to go back to bed, she should go back to bed, she deserves to go back to bed. If only she had a caring husband who would look after her on these bad days, someone who would bring her breakfast in bed and maybe even a comforting word or two. That has always been too much to hope for from Daniel; he doesn’t even know what a comforting word should sound like. Where does she go? Downstairs where Admiral Undermining is no doubt waiting, his sarcasm canons ready to fire, or should she go back to bed, where there is no food or water? She really needs something to eat, something to drink. She needs pain pills too, strong ones, because she doesn’t know what the fuck has happened to her legs but she is walking on painful stilts, so bruised, so swollen. Did she fall? Did someone take a hammer to them whilst she slept? She doesn’t remember falling but she doesn’t remember going to bed either. What happened? What did she do? Did Daniel hear her do it? She crawls back into her bedroom. Moving is bad, very bad. She needs to rest for a little while longer. She needs a jug of water. She needs a fucking worthwhile husband, not that useless lump.

  Where the fuck are her painkillers? She wants to cry with frustration as her hand gropes around on the dirty floor, stirring up dust. She finds only empty packets and the mere effort has her dry heaving again. She peers around desperately in the gloom, focusing on the bin, overflowing with mistakes. Another smashed mistake lying close by, she recognises it as the bottle she was drinking from last night. How can it be empty? She didn’t drink that much! She doesn’t remember smashing it either. Someone else must have done that. They all hate her around here, she is surrounded by enemies, coming in, drinking her alcohol, hiding her painkillers, making her look bad; they must be laughing at her right now. No one believes her about them, Daniel never believes her, he always takes their side. They are all just looking for an excuse to get her. She tries tipping up the bottles, eager for some relief for her dry mouth. They can’t all be empty. She didn’t drink all of these. She can’t let Daniel see. Got to hide everything, got to get something else to drink, got to find something to eat, got to get water. But that means having to go downstairs: he is waiting downstairs, Mr Judgemental, locked and loaded, Mr Disparaging all ready to start on her, but she needs to go downstairs, get it over with. She can’t bear this pain any longer. Maybe she will be lucky, maybe he will take pity on her today, maybe he will love her today and take care of her, and maybe that fucking burnt bacon will turn back into a winged pig!

  She will have to go downstairs, get another box of painkillers, some water – and nothing stronger than water, she tells herself – something to eat, something that hasn’t been fried in a ton of lard. Maybe she will even apologise t
o Daniel for the state of the kitchen, although it wasn’t as bad as he made out. Maybe she will even apologise for what she said the other night; she didn’t mean to call him a fat bastard, it just slipped out, along with the other things she didn’t mean to say. Besides, he said some hurtful things too.

  Her legs don’t seem to work right and she is too tired to remember how to walk. She half steps, half falls down the stairs and then slowly slops through the living room into the kitchen. He doesn’t even look at her as she limps past, no smiles, no good morning, no acknowledgement that she even exists. He just keeps chewing, stern-jawed, at his grease.

  Fine, be like that. She is not going to apologise if he is going to act like this. She staggers forward to the fridge. Her feet sticking accusingly to the floor. He is probably still mad about the state of the kitchen, she will clean it when she feels better. Just get off her case already!

  “Good morning,” he finally mutters, sounding like a sulky child.

  Where is her breakfast? Has the greedy pig eaten everything? No wonder he is looking, staring. Is he looking pointedly at the washing up? Why can’t he leave her alone? She just can’t cope with this argument right now.

  She just can’t cope with Captain Bring Down at all, all poised, ready to jump down her throat for not doing the washing up. She said she would do it, she will, when she feels better. God, what’s the rush? She just feels like shit right now, for fuck’s sake leave her alone. Doesn’t he know how badly her head hurts?

  She opens the fridge to look for food, her hands out of habit reach for a half-empty bottle. She doesn’t remember opening this one. Maybe Daniel had opened it? Why isn’t he saying anything? She waits for the sarcastic comment. He always has one ready. He just doesn’t understand how bad she feels.

  Nothing. Is he ignoring her? Where is the “Starting a little early, aren’t we?” or the “Do you really need that?” She waits for the verbal assault, but it seems he has other plans. The silent treatment. This is why she doesn’t want to leave her room when he is around, he just has to be so pathetic. Why can’t he ever be nice to her?

  Maybe if he said something like “Good morning, Darling, would you like a little breakfast?” then she would sit down with him, talk to him. But no, he just has to be hurtful and hateful, that is what he specialises in. Tears threaten her eyes, she grabs the bottle and leaves, as fast as her poor head will allow.

  Back inside her room, she flings herself into the dirty sheets and gulps angrily at the bottle, waiting for the cold bitter liquid to soothe her. She loves him so much, why does he always have to be so nasty? Downstairs she can hear him running hot water, muttering, probably complaining to himself about the washing up. She said she would do it, damn it! Why does he always have to interfere? Why does he have to be so belittling? Why has their marriage become a silent squabble over the washing up? Why doesn’t he love her any more? She takes another strong swig and waits for the pain inside to dissipate. Tomorrow she will win him back, tomorrow she will stop drinking. She will shower and clean the house. She will look at the job openings, work on her CV. Tomorrow she will see a doctor about her headaches. Oh god, what if Daniel is going to leave her today? Tomorrow would be no good.

  She needs to make him love her again and never stop. It’s his fault too, if only he could provide support for once. Their marriage can still be fixed, they can still go back to the happy times if he would just stop with his stupid little comments.

  She hears the vacuum start up, the noise is piercing; she can’t think any more. She takes another robotic gulp. What time is it? Maybe she should eat something but he is vacuuming close by and is sure to give her evil looks. She is so hungry though. So tired, everything just hurts. Why does he have to be so mean? It won’t kill him to do the housework, just this once, will it? No, she can block him out, she is safe in the dark room, he wouldn’t dare come in. Maybe she should go back to sleep for a while, sleep will make her feel better. The liquid is making her sleepy. If only he would shut up with the vacuuming. Yes, she got the fucking hint, OK? Shut up! Shut up!

  She grips the bottle firmly in her hand. She should yell out his name, and when he comes to see what’s wrong, she should throw the bottle at his stupid head. Hard. Then he will finally understand what it is like to have such a headache. She should get up, tell him to shut up, and fuck off. He needs to be quiet! She is trying to figure out how to fix their marriage. She could sleep right now if it wasn’t for him. He is making her ill on purpose now, just to get revenge.

  Ahh, finally the unwelcome noise stops. Finally! She lies back, embracing the dark, cold silence. Sweet peace at last! She starts to close her eyes, her heart calming down beat by beat, suddenly jolting dramatically as the front door slams. Where is he going? Why didn’t he tell her he is going out? Why would he just leave her like this? He can’t be going to the shops, he didn’t ask her if she wanted anything. He must be going to see her again, going to spend his afternoon huffing and puffing his sweaty mass over another woman. How could he do this to her? She takes another gulp and then another, downing the last of the bottle.

  The throbbing pain in her head begins to numb. Her eyes feel heavy. He can do whatever he fucking wants now. She can sleep this headache away, and it will be alright tomorrow. Daniel isn’t seeing anyone, he will come back, probably just gone to get something else greasy to eat. She hugs herself drunkenly. It’s OK, she can save their marriage. It’s OK, she is just going to sleep this off, everything will be fine …

  She wakes with a gasp. It is dark. She doesn’t want to be awake. Is it morning again or evening? Oh god, she fumbles out of the room and into the bathroom, just in time to heave the morning’s drink out into the toilet. Heave and heave, gasp, heave. Her stomach is in agony, her head screams as she spits out the last of the nausea. Fervently, she takes a gulp of cold sink water, then another. It trickles comfortingly down her burning throat. She longs to return to bed, back to the heavy sleep, but her stomach screams for food. Food, and a painkiller or three. What wouldn’t she do for a painkiller right now? Stumbling out of the bathroom, she sways in the hallway, downstairs she can hear the television. Daniel must be down there, waiting. Why did he have to come home? What if he has brought someone home with him?

  Muffling back a sob, she starts the shaky descent downstairs. No, don’t let him see tears. Why is she such a prisoner in her own home? She should call Peter. Get Peter to teach him a lesson. But Peter told her not to call him any more. Peter said he is tired of these “stunts”. They are not stunts! It was just a stupid joke, and Peter takes everything too seriously. She was going to give it back. What a fucking useless brother he is. She should call her mother. That will piss the piggy off. Get them both in trouble. Her mother is the only one who cares.

  She feels sick again. There must be something wrong with her head, there must be an angry mass of tumours growing in there, it’s not normal for it to hurt this much. She should go see a doctor. Then the piggy will be sorry, sorry he didn’t believe her, serves him right.

  The stench of chips hits her as she passes the television room. She peers into the flicking darkness to see him, slumped, snoring like a pig. She creeps forward, there is a carton of half-eaten cold chips, bobbing up and down on his sizeable belly. A half-finished beer at his side. She stuffs a handful of chips in her mouth, then takes a swig of warm beer. Another handful of chips, another, desperately feeding that hangover. Now they are all gone but she needs more! She creeps into the kitchen in search of more. Oh fuck.

  He has brought another bottle. How many times has she told him?

  No, she is not going to take it. He must have brought it because he felt guilty about seeing that woman. No, she won’t take his dirty booze. He is trying to placate her or keep her out of the way. No! She won’t take it. She is going to call her mother about this! Hush drink, that’s what this is, hush drink and she won’t hush!

  She is not going to take the bottle this time …

  But it would make her head
ache go away. Just a couple of gulps, then she would feel better, just a few mouthfuls. She could even go and sit with him in thanks, be the good wife for a while. A few more mouthfuls, a little more food, some water, then she will be OK. She might even be able to cope with him if he doesn’t start being Mr Sanctimonious. Maybe they could even share a beer, like old times. She hears another snore. So sexy! So romantic! She turns her attention back to the fridge, what else did he buy? More disgusting junk food. Well, the pig must feast. He won’t notice if she took a few items back to her room. And the bottle.

  Daniel doesn’t stir as she creeps past with laden arms.

  He wakes up later in time for the nine o clock news. A report on a morbid story, about a man who killed his wife in a fit of anger and tried to disguise it as a burglary gone wrong. Daniel has been following the story with interest, as have most people, he’s even sympathising a little with the accused. After wondering where his chips went, he goes into the kitchen to grab some popcorn and another beer. He notices the bottle has gone. He is in for another lonely Saturday night, wondering what it would be like to be surrounded by a loving family. Watching all those happy families on the television, watching and wishing and hoping that there is still time.

  He waits a few hours, listening but not hearing as much as a drunken laugh from her, so he decides it is safe to go to bed.

  She stays quiet all night, which worries him. He spends Sunday pretending to watch TV, but all the while waiting, holding his breath, waiting. He checks where he hid the other bottles, but they are gone. Stolen by a thief in the night, a drunken thief of happiness. He doesn’t dare confront her, they will never speak of this again. He goes to bed on Sunday night thinking that he has avoided the worst of it. He is just so tired of the arguments. This is what he needs, a quiet weekend with no drama.

  Anne-Marie is drunk. She can’t remember what she has been drinking or even why. All she knows now is that she wants another drink and the bottles are empty.