And whose fault is this really? she thought, suddenly, angrily. This is Pete’s fault. He drove me to this with his lying and his cheating and his cruel words. If it wasn’t for him, this would never have happened! I’m not going to let him ruin my life, why should I? And although she knew that what she had done was inexcusable, it made her feel better. She felt the blame shifting to him and it comforted her immediately.
And then she thought again of her girls, her beautiful, sweet girls. She had to protect them, she had to do whatever it took to protect them. She had done a terrible thing and she would have to live with that for the rest of her life, that would be her punishment, but now she had to make this go away. For everyone’s sake.
The sound of Pete’s phone beeping made her jump. She reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out. It was a message from C.
Where are you?
This was it, this was the moment that would define her future and her girls’ future. And in that moment, she made her decision. She was thinking sharply, concisely, for the first time in years. She quickly typed back:
Sorry, I can’t do it. I can’t leave my wife and children, they mean too much to me. You have to understand. Please don’t contact me again. I’m changing my number. I’m so sorry. Goodbye x.
The phone rang almost immediately. And then again. She stared at it, willing it to stop ringing and eventually it did. She took another big gulp of whisky and felt better. That was the first problem solved. What did she do now?
The solution was almost too easy, she thought, after all he was leaving her anyway, the evidence was plain to see in the note that he had left her that morning, written in his own hand. Perhaps other people even knew about it. So why not act like it had happened just as he had planned it? How would anyone know any different? The only person who knew was this C person. But if there was no way of contacting him, she’d have to give up eventually. After all, it couldn’t be the first time a man had chickened out of leaving his wife at the last minute. Would she come to their house? She doubted that Pete would have told her where they lived. It was risky, but it was her best option. And she might even get away with it. She felt a surge of relief that she had a plan.
So now she just had to work out how to get rid of the evidence. This would take some more doing. As she necked more whisky, she almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. A useless housewife trying to work out how to dispose of her cheating husband’s body. Her life was more unbelievable than the soaps she loved to watch because of their ridiculous storylines. There was no way that she could get him out of the house without being seen. They didn’t have a garage and she wasn’t strong enough to carry him out to the car and shove him into the boot without making a scene. Even if she wrapped him up in bags, it would look suspicious. The children would be home in just a few hours and she had to get rid of him by then. How was she going to do it?
She went into the kitchen and reached for the secret stash of cigarettes she kept in a high up cupboard for emergencies. Stepping out into the garden and lighting one she inhaled deeply with shaking fingers and looked around. Could she bury him in the garden? Was she even strong enough to dig a hole herself? She didn’t think so. And one of the neighbours might see her from their window, too. What if she hid him in the house and did it late at night? But then where would she hide him? As she smoked, she looked at the tarpaulin that covered the old ponds. They had drained them years ago and had been meaning to fill them with soil as part of the garden renovation project but still hadn’t got around to it. Suddenly she realised the answer was staring at her in the face. Stubbing out her cigarette she walked over to the tarpaulin, lifted it and peered down into the two holes beneath. They were big enough and deep enough, she thought. All she would need to do was to put him in one of them and cover it up with soil. Then she could build something over it and no one would ever know. It almost seemed too simple.
Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her keys and went next door to knock on her neighbour’s door. She would pretend that she needed to borrow some milk, she thought. But no one answered. Then she went to the other side but again, no answer. They were all out at work or school. Now was her chance.
She grabbed Pete’s legs and pulled him through the house, out of the sliding doors and on to the patio. It was exhausting and she was panting and sweating but adrenaline kept her going and she pulled and pushed until he was next to the hole. One last push and he was in. Then she ran back into the house, grabbed a bin bag and shoved his holdall into it, leaving only his coat, phone and the letter. She ran to the
