I was even more determined after the advert came on the TV. It was advertising a brand of baby food and as soon as it appeared on the screen, my wife turned to me and said “Look at that dear little mite, Stuart. Isn’t it sweet?”
I nodded silently; guessing the way the conversation was going to go.
“Of course when we have any children it’ll be a bloody miracle,” she observed. “But its no use my talking to you. You just wont listen. You’d sooner make my life a misery.”
“But Amanda –,” I began.
“Don’t ‘but Amanda’ me,” she yelled. “I've done my best to make our marriage a success, I’m sure. The least you can do is to do your part. How do you think I feel when Rachel asks me when we are going to start a family? She’s got two lovely kids, but then of course Lee is so much more of a man than you are.”
“Shut up, Amanda,” I said quietly. I didn't shout at her. I spoke as calmly as I could.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up!” she cried. “Lee never speaks to Rachel like that, and he’s always perfectly sweet to the children.”
“I don’t give a damn about Lee!” I yelled, getting up from the armchair.
“No, and you don’t give a damn about me either,” she screamed. “You don’t even sit down and talk about it like any reasonable husband. Any other man would do all he could to make his wife happy. But of course, you're more of a mouse than a man, so what can I expect?”
She flinched as I struck her across the face. She didn't cry. Amanda never did. Her pride wouldn’t let her.
“You bloody ponce!” she shouted. “That's what you are! If you cant do right by me, why don’t you go out and get yourself a pretty, sweet little queer to have your sex with? It would suit you right down to the ground!”
She walked out and slammed the door. I could have killed her then, but that would have meant that all my careful planning would have been wasted. It was all fixed for the following Friday evening, so it would have been silly to have done a rush job and messed everything up. It had to be next Friday, because on Saturday I had to take some papers up to London and I was going to make use of the trip to get rid of my wife’s body.
The next seven days seemed an age. Amanda didn't speak to me at all for the first three, but on the fourth she forced herself to tell me that, from then on, she had decided to sleep in the spare room, alone. I didn't object. She wouldn’t sleep there for very much longer I even helped her to move her things into the other room.
At last, Friday evening arrived. We sat watching the television in silence. I had to keep smoking, my hands were shaking so.
Finally, Amanda got up and went upstairs. After a few seconds I followed, after turning the volume of the television up – so as to hide any noise from the neighbours. On my way I went into the kitchen and took the scissors from the hook on the wall.
By the time I got upstairs Amanda was in the bathroom, just as I had planned she would be, brushing her hair in front of the mirror over the sink. Her hair, free of the innumerable pins and clips, reached down to her shoulders. Her breasts danced up and down with the movement of her arm, as she plied the brush vigorously.
A contemptuous look spread over her face as she saw my reflection in the mirror, and as she turned I plunged the scissors as deep as I could into her jugular. She gave a loud scream, followed by a rasping gurgle as the scissors went into her neck. She fell back with such a force that the scissors were wrenched from my hand, and she sank down with a sickening thud as her head struck the washbasin.
Now I come to the most ingenious bit of thinking in the whole thing. I wasn’t going to leave her body on the floor so that the blood would leave a telltale stain on the tiles. I lifted her up and put her in the bath, so that the wound lay directly beneath the tap, then I turned on the water. The blood drained from her neck and ran down the plughole. She looked most uncomfortable – lying there with her head on one side and her eyes staring vacantly in front of her.
I removed all her clothing before I wrapped her body up in the large sheet of polythene. I lifted her up and slung her over my shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and carried her downstairs. I smiled as I thought of how annoyed and disgusted she would be with anything so undignified.
I took her down to the shed at the bottom of the garden, laid her down on the bench and then unwrapped her body from the polythene, as one would unwrap a portion of chips. I left her lying on the polythene, to prevent any blood getting on the bench, and I put on an old raincoat, to prevent any getting on me. I then began to search through my toolbox.
I used the tenon saw to cut off her right hand – the hand that had struck my face more times than I can remember. The saw moved quite easily through the flesh and bone. It was just like sawing wood really – only messier. At last the hand came off, allowing the blood to run freely from the several arteries of the wrist.
I had some difficulty sawing through her legs as the blade kept getting clogged up on bits of flesh and gristle. Finally, I threw down the saw in disgust and picked up the axe. That made things much easier!
Her legs and left arm all came off with about six chops each. Her right arm, however, would not come off so easily. After about ten attempts it still hung there, on four stringy veins, from the shoulder blade. I gave one final, hefty hack. The veins snapped in a shower of red and the arm fell to the floor.
I left the head to the last. I raised the axe high and brought it down heavily. I missed my aim and the blade smashed into her upturned face, sending a shower of warm blood into my eyes. I tried once again. The blade crunched against the cartilage and the head came off. Blood poured from the neck, back down her face, into her mouth and up her nostrils. It wasn’t a pretty sight!
My task completed, I wiped my face, hands and tools on a piece of rag and stood back to admire my work. It had been a bit harder and messier than I had expected, but that was Amanda all over. She liked to be awkward!
I put her trunk in the suitcase first and then her head, which was still oozing red pulp from the gash across her face. Her legs, arms, hands, and feet I packed in neatly and closed the lid.
Early next morning, I put the polythene, the rag on which I had wiped my hands, and the bloodstained raincoat into the incinerator and burnt them.
I left the house about 8.30 with the two cases. One containing my wife and the other, the papers that I was taking to London. I put them both in the boot of the car and drove off.
As I drove through the wood, I was constantly looking for somewhere to bury the case. Finally, I found an ideal spot, surrounded by trees on all sides and began to dig with the spade I had, thoughtfully, brought with me.
I broke off a fern leaf and stuck it in the ground covering my wife – to commemorate her resting place. The spade I threw into the bushes, and I returned whistling to myself. Amanda had never liked me whistling. She said it got on her nerves!
I don’t remember very much of what happened afterwards. I remember seeing the milk float coming towards me on the other side of the road. I remember gripping the steering wheel tightly.
It seemed as if a voice came from somewhere at the back of me. From the direction of the boot. It was Amanda’s voice, mocking and jeering – “Why don’t you be more of a man? Why did you do it? What will the children say when they learn their father is a murderer? But they’ll never know, will they? Because you’ll never be a father! Never have any children!”
She gave a loud laugh, which turned, almost immediately, to the screech of the tyres. I heard the smashing of glass and sank into oblivion.
I awoke in the casualty department of a hospital. A doctor, who, through my hazy vision, looked like a tall, white marble pillar, was standing over me. A nurse was feeling my pulse, holding my wrist in her delicate, pink hand.
“Open the case, nurse,” I heard the doctor say. “See if there’s anything in there that will tell us something about him. Who his relations are, or whom we could contact.”
A scream made me turn my head. The nurse fainted and the doctor stared in horror.
I laughed and laughed and laughed. Ha! Ha! I laugh, even now, when I think about it. It was quite funny really.
You see – I had buried the wrong case!