BARRY’S FINAL BATH

A simple tale of revenge...

Martha had been married to Barry for too many years, fifteen being fifteen too many, and after he took his belt to her one time too many she decided the marriage had gone on for too long. The problem was, how to end it? She could run away, of course, go somewhere she was almost sure he would never find her, but almost sure wasn’t definitely sure and it crossed her mind that one morning all alone in her new paradise she might wake up to find him leering at her with his wedding tackle out. No, that must never do.

Or she might fill in all the forms necessary and try to divorce him. But she knew Barry all right. He would never let things stand at that, divorced and living within seeking and thou shall find distance from her. And when he found her then what would he do? Have his pleasure to start with, maybe once, maybe more than once, and then that belt would come out again because there’s one thing Barry didn’t like and that’s not being worshipped.

Or, failing to make a complete escape or divorcing him she might put an end to him permanently. She might actually and very appropriately kill him. What’s the word? Murder him. Commit wonderful husbandicide. That would be permanent, if only she would get away with it. And how would she tackle it? She knew.

There was one clue for him. It made him shout and scream and even thump her, but she pinched some of his cigarettes when he wasn’t looking, quite a lot, in fact, until she had enough for her purpose. She’d seen it on the telly, so it must work.

He was there in bed next to her and beds are not the right place for murder because all sorts of unsavoury bodily fluids might find their way into the mattress and she’d need that for the rest of her days, probably on her own, but who knows what the future holds? And the whole idea of drying his blood and whatever else leaked out of him from the duvet almost made her feel sick.

He snored and jerked his head almost as if he was reading her mind, but she knew that he wasn’t because he was very legless. Oh, Barry could put the drink away and then some, but when he did he was always incapable of doing anything as energetic as reading minds. And he’d had a few drops more than he knew, last night. If her plan was going to work it would stand a better chance if he was hung over.

But yes, if she was cunning and careful she could remove him from planet Earth without him spilling a drop of anything onto her cosy bed. And when he was dead and could no longer interfere with what she did with her life she could dispose of his flesh and bones quite simply.. She’d worked it out, how she’d lose every trace of him when the flesh was ready for disposal. The first job would be to reduce his life to death.

It hadn’t taken her long to work out the plan, and it was so dastardly and repulsive that she knew that beyond all doubt it would work and that was because it depended almost entirely on his darned selfishness. Because, besides being a monster and a bully he was prone to putting himself number one out of the hundred in his own selfish universe. Nobody else mattered. Even his mother had told her that on her eve to her wedding to him fifteen years ago.

“I know he’s my son and I should speak proudly of him, but I can’t,” she had said, “he’s a b*****d and if you had a grain of sense in that ditzy head of yours you’d escape before he’s got you in his claws, because when he’s got you like that you’ll be his until the day you die.”

But it hadn’t taken her long to realise that she didn’t have a grain of sense in her head, be it ditzy or otherwise, and he took from her whatsoever he wanted and never repaid it in kindness of any sort. His mother had been right. He was a b*****d. He’d even been evil on their wedding night, which was supposed to be the best night of a woman’s life, but he had decided she was no good at what he wanted her to do, and thumped her mercilessly until she learned how to do it. She’d forgotten what it was he’d wanted of her because fifteen years is a long time to remember the pain of suddenly finding herself in hell.

Now she had to end her misery. She had to put an end to Barry once and for all. And when she’d done that there would be no reporting it to the police so that some detective high up at the police station could nose around and investigate it. No. His flesh and bones, even his hair which was particularly horrible the way it curled in a girly way, all must vanish off the face of planet Earth for good.

So for some weeks she had been preparing for his departure from her life.

Their home had been built when Queen Victoria was the monarch and William Gladstone was prime minister and everyone felt good about living. Or so they were told. And because it was supposed to be grand and fit for the middle classes to dwell in it had a magnificent cellar, designed originally as a kind of utility room as well as huge storage for coal for the house’s fires.. And in that magnificent cellar someone had dug a pit at some time or other. She hadn’t done it, the knew that, and Barry wouldn’t have because digging anything represented too much hard work. But she could use that pit. It was brick lined and big enough for Barry to lie in if he curled himself up into as small a ball as he could manage, or somebody did it for him, and lay still. And by definition the dead lie still, don’t they?

“Barry,” she said when he stirred and last night’s excesses were still poking holes into his brains, “I’ve got hold of a thousand pounds but I can’t get at it.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got hold of a thousand pounds?” he groaned, holding his head and scowling.

“I was down in the cellar,” she said, slightly too loud because she knew he hated loud noises when he was hung over, “and I found it! Lovely twenty pound notes in a blue wallet in the pit.”

“In what pit?” he struggled to mutter.

“You Know. The one in the cellar. It’s quite a deep pit and you know my arthritis, I can’t…”

“Bah!” he said, “I’ll teach you to torment me with talk of more money than I’ve had for goodness knows how long…”

But when he mentioned time and how long it was since he’d had enough readies to get drunk on properly she knew she’d got him.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll ask Julie over the road if she’s broke and will give me a hand getting at my thousand pounds…”

“Nah,” he said, and struggled out of bed, “leave her out of it, I’ll sort it for us…”

For us… us... he was already claiming his right to her fictitious hundred pounds, and she smiled secretly to herself.

“Help me, b***h!” he shouted because his pounding head was more than he could cope with and still climb out of bed.

“I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. That’ll give you strength,” she muttered, smiling inwardly. It would be a really good cup of coffee. She had prepared it specially. “Just wait there and I’ll brew it.”

“I don’t like coffee, b***h!” he shouted.

“You’ll like this cup. Nice and sweet and special,” she smirked, and she went down to the kitchen.

“You are a sad old creature,” he spat, “but get it if you have to, but I’m going nowhere!”

Martha scowled. Even now, with a small fortune (in his mind) somewhere he might get his hands on it he was only too happy to be offensive to her

“Your mother was quite right when she told me about you,” she said when she returned up the stairs where he was teetering at the top, afraid to go back and afraid to go down., “come on then, grab hold of my hand and come! The coffee’s in the kitchen.”

He tried to tug her viciously, but lacked the strength to do much more than gain a foothold on the top step. Then she tugged him along, a little bit faster than he could cope with, and he shouted “Stop, b***h!” in a voice too feeble to be threatening.

She didn’t want him to fall down the stairs, so she helped him, making sure he didn’t trip. Not yet.

A cup sat on the kitchen table, steaming.

“There,” she said, “drink that and you’ll feel better.”

He sipped the drink and pulled a wry face. “I told you! B***h! I hate coffee!” he tried to bellow. Then, “where’s all this cash?”

“Finish your coffee. It will give you the strength,” she said almost lovingly

There was a door in the kitchen that opened onto some steps that led down to the cellar She opened the door and he stood gazing into the darkness of a void.

“Put the light on, b***h!” he moaned. Not threatening at all. He was fading away, his anger, his selfishness, all dissolving as he gazed into that void.

“Did you like your coffee?” she asked.

“I hate coffee, b***h.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Oh dear,” she said, “Poor old fool! Go on, go down, but be careful. The steps are a bit crumbly. We don’t want you falling before you get into your bath, do we?”

“What darned bath, b***h?” he whispered.

“You know that telly programme about people being killed in the Caribbean?” she asked as he teetered half way down the short flight of steps.

“I never watch that crap,” he whispered.

“A woman murdered a nasty bloke with nicotine,” she said, quite calmly. “You know, the stuff in your foul cigarettes. She boiled loads of cigarettes in water, and then kept it boiling until there wasn’t much water left. Until it was brown, like coffee…”

“Shurrup, b***h!” he just about managed to force out.

“It doesn’t taste like coffee though, does it Barry?” she asked, “but it does explain what’s happened to all those f**s you reckon you’ve lost…”

It was then, half way down, that she pushed him. Not much more than a gentle nudge, but then that was all that was necessary.

She heard him land with a whispered curse.

She climbed down to him and stared at his face, twitching as he tried to right himself.

“You… pushed me, b***h,” he breathed.

“I know. I’ve killed you, Barry,” she said. “Your coffee was pure poison and you’re almost dead. But before you end up in the hereafter you’d better know why I’ve killed you. It’s because, to quote your own dear mother, you’re a b*****d. Now there’s a pit a bit further along. I’ll help you along. Come on, darling, and don’t cry as you die, will you. It’ll be so mean spirited… Come along, my dearest Barry…” and she half-dragged him the few feet to the old brick-lined pit.

“Your bath awaits…” she added, and when he was there on its edge, helped by a few persuasive kicks, she used all of her strength, and pushed him in.

“B***h…” was the last sound he made.

“I would say I’ll be seeing you,” she whispered, “but I won’t. I’ve ordered half a ton of sand and that’ll be burying you and your bath when they tip it in down the chute just over your head, for eternity I hope.”

© Peter Rogerson, 16.03.23

Reviews

[AYVID N]

This was such vindication! I'm glad she did it. The man was absolutely bad with no redeeming features to him. I'd say Martha waited too long. She should have killed him after the first year itself. Her method of murder was very interesting too. I just hope she isn't found out.