Barbarella

At my place of employment, with no-one else yet around I was able to add to my collection of artefacts, a pair of unclaimed spectacles which had been kicking about in the lost property drawer for ages. I had no intention of working, so I left a typed message for my boss to say I would be absent all day due to a family emergency. A visit to the cash point provided the funds that I would need for the day, not least paying for the petrol required for my anticipated mileage.

I drove to a small town about thirty miles away and bought a wind cheater type jacket that I would never normally consider wearing. With that on the seat beside me I went on twenty miles to the city and started what turned out to be a lengthy search. Wearing the windcheater, baseball cap and purloined spectacles as a rudimentary disguise, I toured garden centres and do-it-yourself shops looking for a weedkiller that was based on the chemical Paraquat.

I had heard that if relatively small quantities of this chemical were imbibed, it was invariably fatal because there was no known antidote. My trouble came from the fact that for my plan to work, the chemical liquid had to have an amber coloration rather than the ubiquitous green that I found in shop after shop. It was almost lunchtime before I found what I sought.

After grabbing a cup of tea and a scone for sustenance, I pointed the car in the direction of another small market town. My business there was soon transacted. In shirtsleeves, with my hair combed differently and the sunglasses resting on my nose, I went into a back street off-licence and purchased a bottle of whiskey of the brand that Rory took off me before. A quick tour a series of trash cans disposed of my props of the day and then I headed back towards the coast.

Bypassing my hometown, I drove to that secret cliff top spot where I had spent that idyllic afternoon with my rich male lover - it felt strange retracing my steps with such a different purpose in mind. In perfect seclusion, I put on the rubber gloves and carefully unwrapped the whiskey bottle, carefully preserving the tissue paper. I opened the bottle and tipped about one fifth of the contents away. It seemed such a waste but the need to keep a clear head precluded the option of an alternative method of disposal. Now from the weedkiller container I topped up the whiskey bottle, replaced the cap and gave it a good shake. Appraising my handiwork, I was more than satisfied because the whiskey had a smoky hue anyway and I would defy an expert to spot the now slightly darker tone.

For the first time that day I was not working against the clock and felt able to allow myself the luxury of a long slow cigarette. I reclined in the late afternoon and for a few minutes let myself remember the previous events at that place. When I sat up it was to the shock of finding that my ingenious plan had already gone disastrously wrong - the two liquids had separated and now the bottom band of the bottle was a very different colour from the rest. Naturally I panicked. It was grim reality that calmed me down - I had either to push ahead with my plan no matter how flawed or simply walk away leaving my wife in Rory's bed. So I experimented and over several test shakings I found that separation was first noticeable after ten minutes and very obvious after fifteen. Putting all my faith in the motto 'He who dares wins', I carefully wrapped the doctored whiskey bottle in the tissue paper, disposed of the weedkiller and rubber gloves over the cliffs then set off home.

Rory had been sprawled on the settee but stood up quickly to face me when I entered the house. I pointed towards the stairs and, putting a deliberate tremor into my voice, said apologetically, "I've just come for my things."

As I pointed the whiskey bottle tipped forward from under the cover of my coat, (I had spent some time practising this movement). Rory grinned, "If that is what I think it is you can pass it to me."

So far so good. I handled the bottle with the guilty air of a caught out schoolboy, but instead of taking it to him, I rolled it along the floor, (nicely mixing the contents). Rory snatched it up, deftly removed the top and raised it to his lips but then paused. Smiling broadly he said, "You really are pathetic. I take your woman and I take your whiskey but you haven't the guts to do anything about it. I bet the other kids took your toys off you when you were a kid as well." Then having delivered his assassination of my character, he tilted the bottle and in macho fashion allowed the equivalent of three doubles to gurgle down his throat.

There was a lacuna in my plan at this point so I just stood and watched to see what the effect would be. Nothing happened and I was immediately disconcerted to be faced by an unforeseen eventuality. Rory held out the bottle and said in an almost friendly way, "It's not your fault. Share the booze with me - we can drink to celebrate your departure."

Had he shown such kindness a moment before it would have saved his life because, not being a murderer at heart, it had taken a real effort of will to stop myself calling out a warning when he first prepared to drink. "No thank you," I said proudly.

He was not offended. "Look there's no hard feelings, the better man won that's all. Come and sit down, make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea instead. Babs, put the kettle on - here's your chance to do one last thing for your hubby."

I walked to sit in my usual chair as my wife limped painfully into the kitchen. Rory took another swing from the bottle, sprawled back on the settee with one hand behind his head and said indulgently, "You never had a chance Stuart - right from the start. Babs is way out of your league and I'm surprised that you didn't realise that. Hell, I've seen what you've got and I doubt if she can even feel it inside her. The day you got married I knew she would be looking round before very long. That girl has got a very healthy appetite and it takes a bloke like me to satisfy her."

Whatever the truth of his words they passed right over my head because I was growing more and more concerned. The poison seemed to be having no effect and the darkness at the bottom of the bottle was becoming more apparent by the second. My wife returned carrying two mugs and I could see the worried look in her eyes. At that moment, while my attention was distracted, Rory gave a harsh grunt and I looked back to see him bent forward holding his stomach. Slowly he leaned back, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and said, "Christ that hurt. I must have got a dose of the shits though what the fuck I've eaten I don't know."

He took another swig from the bottle, as if hoping that the alcohol would deaden the residual pain in his stomach. Instead it caused him to convulse forward again, moaning "Oh God, my guts are on fire," As Babs and I stood in frozen posture watching, he toppled slowly forward onto the floor.

I signalled to my wife and together we hauled Rory back into a sitting position on the settee. Putting my mouth, near to his ear I said, "We've got to get you to the hospital. Can you walk?"

He nodded and looked at me. There was a mixture of pain and surprise in his eyes. "Thanks pal. I don't deserv......." he started to say but his words were lost as pain gripped him again.

Working together, Babs and I managed to manoeuvre him to the door. This was the most risky part of the operation because it was critical that we were not seen taking Rory away. A quick check showed that we were in luck because the street was deserted. We got him into the passenger seat of the car with Babs sitting behind to hold him upright, then as fast as I dared drove to the harbour.

There is a pier which at one time was the lifeblood of the town. It was specifically constructed for the unloading of fish, both deep sea trawlers and in shoe cobbles, with cranes and conveyors. Now it was largely obsolete. A padlocked swing gate barred access but one bollard was partly broken so, by folding in a wing mirror, it was possible to squeeze my narrow car through. I drove to the end of the pier and got out. It was very dark and there was not a soul in sight.

A combined effort got Rory out of the car. He had seemed semi-conscious but when his feet were on the ground he looked round and said, "What's going on? This isn't the hospital". With a burst of strength he flung Babs and I from him and staggered forward, halting only on the very edge of the pier. Seeing the water below he started to turn but collapsed to lay face down, parallel the edge of the pier. I was glad that he was not looking up at me. With my foot I gave a nudge which sent him over the drop. It was quite a muffled splash. I stepped forward and looked down. He came to the surface with mouth open gasping for air; made a few futile strokes then slowly sank below the oil scum and harbour detritus covered surface, one despairing arm raised in the traditional manner.

I continued looking down until the last bubble had risen to the surface then went to the boot of the car and removed the original whiskey bottle. This was to be the finishing touch. I pushed the fingerprint covered container under some rusting machinery and stiffed the polythene bag in my pocket. My theory was that when the bottle was found it would be taken as indicating that Rory had simply got rat-arsed and fallen off the pier. Possible naively I hoped that such a conclusion would obviate the need for an autopsy but I was confident that, if the poison in his system was discovered, I had covered all the angles.

Babs was sitting in the car shaking all over. I put my hand on hers to give a reassuring squeeze then drove quickly home. A quick cup of tea was the primary requirement and I regretted the whiskey tipped away on the cliff top because both of us were badly in need of a shot at that moment. We sat in silence, smoking and sipping the hot liquid. Babs was crying quietly and I guessed that she was remembering good times with Rory - all my memories of him were bad.

I could not allow her to dwell for too long because there was work to be done. My wife's task was to strip and remake both beds, putting the soiled sheets into the washing machine and then starting a program going. I carried the two kit-bags belonging to the dead man into what had been my bedroom for so long. It was strange that during all his time in the house, Rory had lived out of the kit-bags without making any use of the storage space in the main bedroom. I adopted the opposite strategy, cramming his stuff into drawers but scattering plenty around to create the perfect impression of a disordered room - galleries considered such to be true art these days. At the bottom of one kit-bag I had a most pleasant surprise in the shape of £6000 in bank notes together with redundancy documents signed three months previously. I left the money where it was but I was elated because, found in situ, it was perfect corroborative evidence of our innocent involvement. You will have gathered that our story was to be that, Rory was simply a lodger who had failed to return from a night out.

In bed, combined physical and nervous exhaustion guaranteed that we fell asleep immediately and I cannot even claim that it was in each others arms. The fact that I was back in my own bed for the first time in over nine months also failed to register. The next day was hard because we both had to force ourselves into work if only to maintain the appearance of normality. During the evening and especially in bed we began to unwind and expressed in different ways how nice it was to be free of that malignant influence on ours lives. Babs told me that I could have her if I was careful but I wanted to put off that moment until Rory's cruel final assault no longer cast a shadow over us. We did however lie entwined every night, exchanging vows of love and kissing. I fondled her breasts and she played with me showing that her fingers were no less educated than the rest of her anatomy. Life was delightful and, were it not for the constant expectation of policemen at the door, it would have been perfect.

It was five nights before we made love, although what we had been doing the previous nights I don't know - why does it need the act of penetration to qualify? We fucked with a joy and exuberance as if the whole world were contained in that bed - a combination of apparently unlimited stamina and mutual insatiability. During one interlude, Babs got up on one elbow and leaned over me with the enlarged nipple of one lovely breast, tantalisingly brushing against mine. Looking into my eyes she asked, "Is it true what he said about you sucking pricks in the park."

There were to be no secrets between us now, so whatever the cost, she deserved the truth. "Yes," I confessed. "It was a kind of mental aberration - a kind of crusade. I felt that I had to suck every cock that has ever been up you."

Babs laughed happily and told me, "I don't mind if you like doing it and want to continue - but you will have to suck off just about every man on the South Fork estate. And that's just for starters."

****

All my clever preparations were not needed and perhaps it is perverse of me to be slightly disappointed by the fact. The body of Rory, lodger from hell, never surfaced and I can only suppose that it is still lodged under the struts of the pier. After a couple of months, one of his ex shipmates knocked on the door asking for him. We said that Rory had gone to check out the Scottish ports - he replied that he had considered heading that way himself and that was that. After a few months we moved inland to live in the city with that spare £6000 allowing us to put a deposit on a very nice house. I don't think of it as theft - surely nine months bed and bawd was worth that much.

Five years have gone by since then. We are still together, happy and deeply in love. However, I know that Babs has a lover or lovers but she would be horrified to think that I even suspect as she is so fastidiously careful about her liaisons. I don't actually know who or where but I can read the signs. Whenever she has been with someone, I know from the texture of her skin, a deeper hue in the colouring of her eyes or an extra gaiety in the inflections of her voice. It still hurts but when the pain gets too bad, there is a small discrete club I know which provides the only medicine of my particular sickness of the soul.