‘Stuart? I have to get to Stuart,’ I scream. ‘I have to save my husband.’
The man in the doorway doesn’t budge. He doesn’t move.
‘Hello?’ he says, looking at me like I’m some ghost. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, his face perplexed.
The fear, the sorrow turns to something else now. I feel the rage rising in me, a rage I have only recently felt second-hand through my memories. But now, the rage is fresh. How dare this man stand in my way. How dare he. I need to save Stuart. I don’t have much time.
Tears well, but I push them down. And, shoving towards the dining room, I see something in the man’s eyes I don’t like. Something I recognise.
I see pity. I see judgement.
And, before I can see any more, it happens.
The kitchen knife covered in rhubarb pie is covered in something else.
Blood.
The knife pierces the flesh, right through his shirt, and I stare into his face as shock and horror paint themselves on his expression. He moans, a guttural moan of shock and agony, and then he crumples against the wall, slowly sliding down.
I pull the knife back out, blood oozing in patterns magnificent. I stare into his face, calm and collected.
‘I need to save Stuart,’ I announce, stepping over him, stepping towards the dining room.
But when I get there, I don’t see Stuart. There is no noose, no rope.
I don’t understand.
Where is he? Why can’t I save him? I saw him. Right here. I know I did.
I need to save him this time.
I need to save Stuart. Am I too late? It can’t be. I can’t be too late. Not again.
Tears whirl, mixed with sorrow and rage.
I just don’t understand.
I spin back around, staring at the man who sits in a pool of his own blood. He is sliding away from me, every inch triggering an agonising scream.
‘Where is Stuart?’ I yell, angering as I trudge towards him.
‘Please, don’t. Please don’t,’ he begs, tears on his greying face.
He looks at me with a fear I recognise from another part of my life.
I swipe at my face, shaking my head.
I don’t understand. I don’t know why I couldn’t save him.
I am angry. I am rage-filled. And someone needs to pay.
I step towards him; his eyes are pleading. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Stuart,’ I murmur.
He looks at me like I’m mad.
I’m not mad. I know he’s not my husband. I know that.
But I also know he is part of the reason I couldn’t stop things. I couldn’t save him now.
He got in the way. I was too late. Again. And this time, it was his fault.
The knife throbs in my hand. It begs to be felt, begs to be heard.
So I listen.
This time, I look into his face as I plunge it into his stomach again and again. Again and again.
Blood flies. I grow weary.
When I’m done, I grip the knife harder, step over the pool of blood – wouldn’t do any good to get my pumps ruined – and head out the door, into the warm March sunshine.
Nobody sees me as I travel across the yard, into the house and back to my rocking chair.
I hold the knife tight as I catch my breath, rocking back and forth, staring at the bay window.
But Stuart isn’t there. He never was, I guess. He’s been gone too long. It’s too late.
And now it’s just me again, alone, with Amos by my side.
I rock and rock and rock for what seems like forever.
And then, as I’m staring, I see a truly fantastic sight.
Jane pulls into the driveway, the car roaring into its spot. She’s hopping out, shopping bags in hand. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe my eyes.
She’s back. It’s too late, though. It’s way too late.
She’s wearing a sunshine-yellow dress, her short hair still beautiful in the sunlight. She’s back. She’s home. She’s here.
She walks up the driveway, staring into the window as she does.
Nothing to see there, dear. Keep moving.
I watch her walk in through the front door and I wait. I count one-two-three-four.
And as if on cue, a guttural scream escapes from her lips. I wish I could see her. I imagine she crumples to the ground. I can almost taste her shock from here.
Her scream sends shivers up my spine. I wonder if he can hear it, wherever he is. I wonder if Stuart hears it.
She screams and screams, but no one comes out to help, least of all me.
Because I know I’m screaming now, too. Her screams merge with my own, until they are one. One long, loud scream for the thing we can’t fix, no matter how much we want to.
A grating scream for the hook in the ceiling, for the window that looks so different now, and for the woman who was too late.
After a long moment, she rushes outside, and within seconds, there is a pounding at my door.
I squeeze the knife tight. It’s too late for Stuart. It’s too late for Alex at 312 Bristol Lane.
But it’s not too late for her to pay. Someone has to pay for these sins that cannot be undone.
Someone has to pay indeed.
I walk steadfast and sure to the door. I know what I must do. The train can’t stop now. It can’t.
I open the door, and she’s a sobbing, bloody mess. She looks at me and I want to feel pity for her. I want to apologise, to say I understand.
But I don’t.
She looks at me as she incoherently mumbles about blood and murder and needing help, but I barely hear her words as I wait for her to rush inside the doorway, until she’s right where I want her.
I barely hear her screams as the knife plunges again, its job not quite done.
‘It’s your fault, it’s all your fault,’ I say, tears only falling after the deed is done, after the sunshine-yellow dress is bright red.
Because it was her fault. It was the fault of her youth and of her prettiness and of her temper. It was all her fault.
But then again, maybe it wasn’t completely. Maybe we are all products of the lives we live, of the circumstances of our earlier days. I can’t tell.
With the job done, I toss the knife down with a clatter, head back to the kitchen and pick up the phone.
This time, my fingers find the right buttons. I dial correctly, my voice trembling without any rehearsal.
As I explain the circumstances to the operator, I take one last glance back at 312 Bristol Lane. And then, despite the emergency operator’s instructions, I hang up, knowing things will be over soon. I sit down in my chair, staring at the house again, a bit of sadness welling.
Why do all good things have to end so soon?
I rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until they come.
There are a whirl of questions. A whirl of answers. A swirling concoction of body bags and police lights and evidence bags. A blanket is thrown over my shoulders and some nice police officer makes me a cup of tea like Jane always did.
His isn’t nearly as good. He doesn’t know how to make it just right like she did.
And then, after a long time, it’s over, just as quickly as it started.
I am alone in my chair, the blackness enveloping me as I drift away, away, away once more.