Just then headlights from outside swept over the body of her husband, illuminating the blood that matted his temple, scarlet against his too-pale skin. She froze interror at the sound of an engine being shut off, the bang of a car door and then footsteps. Someone must have called the police. Dorothy turned to Annette in fright.
‘It’s okay. It’s only Ro.’
‘You called Rosemary?’
‘We’re going to need some help,’ Annette stressed in a hushed voice. ‘When you rang me you said you’d hit him and he’d collapsed …’ They both automatically turned towards the heavy glass ashtray that lay a few feet away. Dorothy could see a dark patch on the corner and a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.
‘I should call the police …’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’ll be charged with murder. You’ll be sent to prison. Is that what you want, Dotty? When it’s him that should be the one in jail for what he’s done to you.’
Dorothy reached out and gently touched Bobby’s cheek. He looked like he was sleeping. How could she have done this? She’d taken another person’s life. The man she’d once loved with every part of her. Oh, how she’d loved him once. It had been all-consuming. How had it come to this?
‘Stop it, Dot. Pull yourself together,’ snapped Annette, batting her hand away from Bobby’s face. ‘He hurt you. He hit you and terrorized you and made your life a living hell. He deserves this. In fact, this ending is too good for him.’
Dorothy hadn’t set out to kill Bobby that evening. Their rows had become more and more frequent. It wasas though, once she’d let him get away with it that first time, it had opened some kind of floodgate where all bets were off. He wasn’t even apologetic after he hit her any more. That first time, a few months after they were married, he was beside himself with guilt and remorse: crying and begging for her forgiveness and promising her the earth. And she’d had no choice but to forgive him. She had nowhere else to go. She couldn’t leave this man with his film-star looks and his charm without causing a scandal. Her father had been glad to see the back of her and her mother was too weak to stand up to him. As it turned out, she’d been more like her mother than she thought. Bobby didn’t hit her again for months, and she’d begun to hope that it was a one-off, that he was so mortified, so contrite, that he’d never do it again. But once he realized that being married to her wasn’t as exciting or as glamorous as he was expecting, that they wouldn’t be populating the planet with their beautiful offspring, that she wasn’t content to sit around all day playing house, once he realized that he was bored, bored, bored, then the violence began to escalate.
And then, tonight, it had been worse than ever.
He’d been out drinking with some of his mates down the club, as he’d started to do on a Saturday evening, and he’d come home smelling of another woman’s perfume. She’d foolishly thought that, despite the arguments, despite the fact he hit her, that he was faithful, but how naïve, how stupid she’d been. She had accused him of cheating and he’d denied it, of course,but when she refused to believe him, when she wouldn’t shut up about it, he’d grabbed her around the throat, pushing her up against the wall, slowly choking her, and she’d felt more afraid than ever. He was actually going to kill her, she was going to die, and as he squeezed the breath out of her she’d searched frantically around for something to hit him with, her hands finally finding the glass ashtray that had been a wedding present and which sat on top of their television. And as her vision started to recede, as everything began to turn black around the edges, she grabbed the ashtray and crashed it hard against his temple. He released his grip instantly and she coughed and spluttered, clutching her throat with both hands, as he staggered backwards, his eyes wide with surprise, and then his legs gave way and he’d crumpled to the floor.
And then, with a dawning sense of horror at what she had done, she called Annette.
‘Stay here and be quiet while I let Rosemary in,’ Annette instructed now. And then she added, more kindly, ‘You can’t afford to lose it, Dot.’ She squeezed Dorothy’s shoulder again, as she walked past.
Dorothy could hear Annette in the hallway, speaking quietly to Rosemary. ‘What will Rosemary think?’ Dorothy muttered to herself, still on her knees in front of Bobby. She hated him and she loved him, but despite everything she didn’t want him to die.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whimpered, tears pooling in her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ She watched his face, his beautiful,beautiful face, half expecting him to sit up and make a grab for her, but he was so still, so silent. She stood up, dusting down her cheesecloth dress, and glanced down at her bare feet. There was a spot of blood on her big toe. Was it Bobby’s or hers? She couldn’t tell.
‘Dot, oh Dot, what have you done?’
She turned, as though in a trance, to see Rosemary rushing into the room, her eyes round with disbelief.
‘She’s in shock,’ stated Annette to Rosemary, as though Dorothy wasn’t there.
‘Come on, my love. Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of sweet tea,’ said Rosemary, as if that was the answer to everything. She guided Dorothy to the settee and then disappeared into the kitchen. Before she knew it Rosemary was back and practically forcing the sweet tea down her throat. ‘I’ve put a little something in it to settle your nerves.’
Dorothy didn’t know how much time passed as she sat there staring into space. She was having an out-of-body experience and she felt numb as she dispassionately watched her two friends wrap her husband’s body up in sheets like a Swiss roll. She could hear them muttering amongst themselves about Magpie Hill and burial sites and waiting until the early hours of the morning before carrying him out to the car. Dorothy couldn’t believe that this was now her life. When she woke up this morning she’d been a married woman. She’d been Bobby Falkner’s wife with their own home and a future, but now what would become of her?
‘You don’t think we should tell the police and say it was self-defence?’ Rosemary asked.
‘Of course not,’ Annette replied impatiently. ‘They wouldn’t believe it. They’d chuck Dorothy in prison and throw away the key. We’ve seen it happen before. Come on, Ro. You know the way things are for us.’
There were more low-level murmurings but Dorothy zoned out. She felt incredibly tired all of a sudden. Rosemary must have noticed her slumping sideways because she helped Dorothy lie down on the orange settee. ‘Here we are, that’s it,’ she said, adjusting the cushion so that it supported her head. ‘Have a lie-down and don’t worry, we will sort it out.’ She threw a blanket over her and despite the oppressive heat of the evening, Dorothy shivered. Her eyes felt heavy and her throat, where Bobby had choked her, still felt sore. She must have eventually fallen asleep because when she woke up it was light and she could hear Annette and Rosemary clattering around in the kitchen. The scent of frying bacon drifted over to her and she sat up, kicking the blanket away from her, confused. She glanced around the small front room. It was immaculate. The ashtray had been cleaned and was back on top of the television. In fact, the only sign that she had killed her husband and the whole thing hadn’t been a terrible nightmare, was a tiny patch of blood on the mushroom-coloured carpet.
45
Imogen
I stare at Annette, pristine in her tweed and pearls, and I try and imagine her and Rosemary dragging Bobby out to their car and digging a grave on a lonely hillside. They would have been much younger and fitter back then, of course, but still, I can’t picture it.
She wrings her hands, regret on her face. ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No. I’m glad you did.’
‘Will you … will you tell the police? Rosemary and I … we would be prosecuted.’
‘Of course I won’t tell the police,’ I reassure her. ‘Why do you think Dorothea wanted me to know this?’
