[Author's note: This is first of two winning entries to Spinetingle.com.]
The night her husband was shot dead, Amanda Preston was with friends. She had arranged the evening to celebrate Charlotte’s 30th but in truth Amanda had just needed a solid alibi.
She had known that Ben had been cheating for some time now. He wasn’t the greatest liar on God’s earth and some of his excuses were paper-thin. Late evenings at work to meet tight deadlines. Weekend team building courses. A friend’s stag do in Spain. His duplicity would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so hurtful.
When they had married six years previously, Amanda had thought that her life of wedded bliss would last forever. Yes, Ben was mild-mannered, meek even, and, no, he didn’t light up her world whenever he entered the room, but he was gentle and considerate. Many of her friends had significant others who were thoughtless and cold, demanding so much unreciprocated attention from their spouses that the women barely found the time to enjoy a life of their own.
In Ben, Amanda had found a man who would bend to her whims, someone who would not complain when she turned the TV to soaps instead of sport, a man who admired the multitude of shoes she bought. He had even allowed her to determine the regularity of their sex life, something which had died before they reached their first wedding anniversary.
Over time, the love that they had once shared gradually withered and died. With no passion in their marriage, life had become mundane and repetitive. Her job, the housework (of which Ben did his fair share), nights out with girlfriends, nights in with the TV and insipid conversation. So many tiny daggers that combined to kill their relationship.
She had been asked why she stayed with Ben, why not end the marriage and find a more exciting life, and Amanda had been quick to answer. These days too many relationships ended in divorce. People no longer respected the sanctity of marriage the way Amanda did. She would not become one of those sad statistics. Gail, the friend that had proposed the idea, was no longer in Amanda’s social circle.
So while Amanda refused to be a divorcee, being a widow was a different matter.
Despite the loss of the emotions they had once shared, Amanda was deeply wounded by Ben’s betrayal and felt justified in her search for revenge. For every text of Chris’s that he responded to, for each weak excuse he delivered, for the times he uttered Chris’s name in his sleep – Ben would pay for the shame he caused Amanda.
When she had first stumbled across evidence of his infidelity – a text from Chris: ‘thx 4 las nite – u no the spot mr Big - C xxx’ – Amanda had wanted to talk to someone about it. Her thoughts had immediately turned to Rachel, her maid of honour.
Not only had Rachel been her best friend since high school, but the text was obvious proof against Rachel’s accusation that Ben was gay. She had hypothesised Ben’s homosexuality based on his lack of sexual appetite, his dislike of beer and the fact that he could recite The Wizard of Oz from start to finish.
Mortified that her friend could think such things, Amanda had been quick to point out that Ben was in no way camp, didn’t drink cocktails and could name no other Judy Garland movie. Even if he had been spotted on more than one occasion at The Blue Oyster, one of the city’s infamous gay bars, she’d argued that it was because the place was a favourite of his colleagues.
Rachel’s wild aspersions, throwing doubt onto both Ben’s sexuality and Amanda’s knowledge of her husband, had struck a rift between them that had been insurmountable. They were no longer in touch.
Rather than finding someone to confide in, Amanda had put her efforts into attaining her vengeance. She realised that if she spoke to anyone about Ben’s affair, if she allowed it to be known that she was aware of his misdeeds, then she may be a suspect when he was killed. If instead she appeared ignorant to his philandering, the mantle of suspicion would not fall on her.
The murder of her husband had been surprisingly – scarily – easy to arrange. Subtle enquires in pubs in the wrong areas of town had led her to a number of questionable characters all of whom, she had no doubt, would happily kill for cash.
Being a cautious person, Amanda had not entered into negotiations straight away. Instead, now that she knew where to obtain the hired help, she had left it for a few months, planning to return incognito. If the assassin was to be caught, either in the act or in the ensuing police investigation, she needed to know that he would not be able to point the authorities in her direction.
In the time between locating her husband’s would-be killer and paying for the deed, Amanda had the displeasure of meeting Ben’s lover. His company often organised weekend fun days for the employees and their families. Waltzers, live music, bouncy castles for the kids, candy floss, a photographer and the obligatory beer tent. Joining him at the most recent event, Amanda was introduced to his colleagues. On previous occasions she had already met many of the old timers, called so not because of their age but because of the length of service to the company – Michael, Lucy, Christopher, Rajid, Sarah – and now she was presented with the new blood.
Of the three new people, she could only remember one: Christine. The young, blond strumpet. How predictable that Ben would fall for her lithe figure, her girlish giggle, her pert breasts and firm backside. How appalling that he could allow himself to succumb to such a typical, archetypal hussy whose weight, small as it must be, no doubt exceeded her IQ. How irritating that he would put their marriage on the line for the sake of such a vapid, manufactured, ten-a-penny whore.
Amanda was certain that Christine was the cause of her husband’s infidelity. He gave it away in the attention he afforded her: the way he kept her in his eyesight as often as possible; the warning words he delivered when she went for another beer; the manner in which he chased away young rivals that sniffed around her like so many dogs smelling a bitch in heat.
When she’d gently probed him later, Ben had admitted that he had taken to Christine because she reminded him of his younger sister, that he was looking out for her as a big brother would. This just set Amanda’s blood boiling. Being unfaithful was one thing but to confuse the act with near-incest was beyond belief.
In the restaurant celebrating Charlotte’s birthday, Amanda had complained about her Wexford chicken and demanded a fresh dish. There was nothing wrong with the meal, but she had to ensure that the party of women were remembered at the busy establishment. For that reason she had also left a larger than usual tip.
After the meal, some of the women wanted to call it a night but Amanda, having not yet received her expected call, convinced the rest of them that more drinks were required and led them to Charlotte’s favourite bar. Again, Amanda made sure that their presence was memorable, flirting with the bouncers and staff in order to obtain a much-desired booth.
Before the second round, Amanda excused herself and went to the toilet. Alone in the stall, she switched on the disposal phone and was rewarded with a message stating she had voicemail. Dialling the number to access the message, she listened intently to two words:
‘It’s done.’
The voice was so soft and youthful that she found it amazing to think that it belonged to a killer. In those two small words, Amanda found satisfaction and justice. Her husband could embarrass her no more. No longer would she have to suffer as he sullied their marriage with his vile actions.
She had considered ordering the death of the harlot, but that would only martyr the bitch and give Ben more reason to love and pine for her. Instead, by choosing to have her husband shot down, she would strike a horror into the heart of the whore that would not be soon forgotten. Maybe she would eventually get over from the trauma of seeing her lover gunned down in front of her very eyes – but Amanda hoped it would be a long, painful road to that recovery. The slut needed to learn that she should not sleep with married men.
In the bathroom stall, Amanda couldn’t help but wonder how the deed had transpired. She had given explicit instructions so she knew how it was supposed to pan out and she could only hope that the extra cash she’d given had ensured her plan was followed.
Getting the money had been too easy. Once she had found out where to employ a killer, she devised the plan to pay for it. She’d ‘borrowed’ a driving licence and gas bill from a friend and, by visiting three payday loan offices in different suburbs of the city, she had gathered nearly four grand in cash before the end of the week. By dipping into the grocery money each week, she was able to pay back each loan before it had a negative affect on her friend’s credit rating and her actions were discovered.
Once she’d held onto the cash for a number of weeks, she donned a wig, inserted contacts that altered the colour of her irises and returned to the seedy part of town to hire herself a hitman. The cost had been only £2,000 but she gave another £500 to ensure that the job was done according to her plan. The man was to follow her husband to one of his trysts, ensuring that both he and his beloved jezebel were together then, at the earliest opportunity, put as many bullets in Ben as he was able to before he had to make his escape.
She had given him the number of a disposable phone – the only person who had the number – and ordered that she wanted to be informed as soon as Ben was dead.
It’s done.
The memory of the message echoed in her ears. Two words that signified that her life had changed. Forever, and for the better.
Aware that she was taking too much time in the ladies, she quickly put the next phase of her plan into action. The call that the killer had made could be traced. To ensure that it was not traced back to her, she opened the back of the phone and replaced the sim card with a freshly purchased pay-as-you-go one. Dropping the original sim down the toilet, she gave the inside of the phone a brief squirt of perfume with the hope that that the chemicals in the scent would dissolve any fingerprints she may have left on the interior of the mobile.
She did not care that the spray may damage the circuitry as she planned to leave the phone in a discreet corner of the bar. Somebody was bound to pick it up, whether to steal it or hand it in to the management. Over time it would acquire so many fingerprints that those she may have left behind would become only a fragment of the chaotic mess and therefore thwart any identification attempts made by police technicians.
She now had no ties to the murder of her husband. All she needed to do was enjoy the rest of the evening, making sure to be a memorable partygoer and to get herself in as many time-stamped photos as possible.
‘I can’t believe how late it is,’ Amanda muttered as the car pulled up outside her home.
‘It’s only ten to one,’ said Gary. Charlotte was slumped in the passenger seat, muttering something about chips, oblivious to the fact that her boyfriend had just highlighted the time of Amanda’s return home and provided another seal for her watertight alibi.
She thanked Gary for the lift home and made her way up the drive. Her belly jumped in nervous anticipation. How long before the police turned up to inform her that her husband had been involved in a tragic shooting? Had they already attempted a personal call and, finding no-one home, left a message on the answer machine asking her to call the local station as soon as possible?
Unlocking the door, Amanda knew that she would not sleep tonight. The excitement she felt was akin to the feeling she’d had as a child on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, when the news of Ben’s death was made public, the world would be different in so many ways.
As she entered, she instantly knew that something was wrong. The house did not feel empty and cold as it should; there was a presence within.
Dropping her bag and pushing the door closed behind her, she walked slowly into the living room. The lights were off and nothing stirred the stillness inside. Moving to the kitchen revealed nothing of the indefinable quality to the atmosphere that told her she was not alone.
She crept upstairs, barely breathing even as her heart raced. The first door led to the bathroom –nothing in there. Next was the master bedroom. As she eased open the door, she saw the spectre rising from the bed.
The image of Ben stood before her, the bloodless face as white as death, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. It lifted its arms toward her.
Her lips trembled at sight of the apparition and she felt her sanity weaken.
The mockery of her husband took a shaky step toward her.
‘’Manda,’ it said. The voice was too soft, too quiet, to be Ben’s. The sound was fragile and the words hoarse. It seemed as if he was speaking from some distant place, a realm other than the one she occupied.
Amanda shook her head in disbelief, trying to refuse what she saw. When the thing stepped forward again and reached out to grab her, she tried to scream but her voice had deserted her.
As the hands clasped her upper arms – solid hands, hands made of flesh and blood – she knew that the man before her was no ghost but her husband. Her living husband.
‘He’s dead,’ Ben whispered, as his grief wrung yet more tears from his reddened eyes. ‘Christopher’s been shot.’
Comments