Bullying, death and a house for sale

If you, the house-hunter, knew nothing about the recent history of
this cute-face terraced house, it would look like butter wouldn't melt
in its bathroom. The scent of a clean suburban Autumn would seduce you
more. But you are aware of some rather disturbing events hosted
here.
Your estate-agent friend is standing by the front door, checking her
watch, when the creak of your opening the gate causes her to look up
and smile unconvincingly.
After exchanging a few cursory pleasantries, and brief news of your
respective relationship break-ups, she produces a set of keys.
And you wonder if your search for a new home has come to an end.
This is what she says.

* * * * * * * * * *

So, this is it. Has quite some kerb appeal, don't you think? Shall we
go in?

Yes, it's a lovely door, isn't it. Reclaimed. Victorian.

The house officially came on the market this morning.

Yes, terrible business. Have you been reading about it in the
papers?

You're the first to view actually. Houses like this sell like hot cakes
round here . . . Well, what are friends for at the end of the day, eh?
Anyway, this is the hallway. I love this shade of off-white, don't you?
Opens up the space. Original wooden floors. Throughout. Mmm, smell the
polish. Fine stuff.

I'll tell you what, for an evil cow she had some stunning taste.

No, I don't think he had much of a say.

I know because . . .

Oh, God. I wasn't going to tell anyone about this. Confidential!

Okay you've twisted my arm. I knew him. He used to come to my support
group. I remember the first day he showed up at my house. He was all
bones and jam-jar spectacles; greasy schoolboy hairdo and murky brown
cardigan.

I said, "Can I help you at all?"

His magnified, puppy-dog eyes glazed over, and he said, "I hope so. I'm
a battered wife."

Look, have you got a few minutes to hear about this?

Thought so. Take a pew here. I know where there's a bottle of
Bailey's.

One's not going to make you fail the breathaliser.

Does that taste right to you? No funny after-thingy? Mm okay.

He told us some stories at that group. That's his favourite chair
you're sitting in right there. It reclines. Best view of the TV. He
liked his daytime soaps and he loved anything with fashion make-overs.
And cooking programmes.

He's sat there one early evening, pretty chuffed with himself. He's
copied a recipe off Ready, Steady, Cook. She's all but been offered
this plum promotion at work and, after cleaning the house top to
bottom, there's the smell of toad-in-the-hole baking in the oven and a
bottle of red breathing.

At this point, by the way, she's being a bit nicer to him. So he's
looking forward to her noticing the spotless kitchen floor; the brownie
points for the meal; maybe one of those rare little hugs or kisses he's
learned to cherish.

Half an hour later, she's not back.

Another hour, no sign.

At 11.30pm, imagine, through the front door you can see from there, she
comes crashing in like a prop-forward, all wide shoulders and bull
terrier face. Power suit.

She's pissed as a fart, unsteady on her feet, shouting about some
pretty thin girl getting the promotion who is probably having sex with
the boss. She reiterates how difficult it is for an "ugly bird" to get
on in life; how she has to work twice as hard as everyone else to fill
this house with expensive things . . .

Nice though, isn't it?

In the meantime, she argues, he just sits on his bum all day with his
feet up watching crap telly. She's glugging the wine straight from the
bottle, and - of course - using lots of awful swear words and
put-downs.

Doesn't bear thinking about.

She stumbles into the kitchen - see all that lovely beech and chrome
through there, fancy a peek? - she lurches in here, and demands
dinner.

He says it's ruined.

She yells at him, accusing him of starving her.

He serves the meal.

She takes a bite. She feels dried Yorkshire pudding on her tongue. She
stands up, looking non-plussed, eyes rolling.

She vomits profusely over the kitchen floor.

She screams at him - yeah? - accusing him of poisoning her. She orders
him to clean the mess up.

Then she goes back in there - let's go back in there - to sleep on that
white sofa there; and he cleans the kitchen floor for the second time
that day.

Oh awful.

Oh she was a wicked bully.

Insecure.

Know the feeling.

Well, both of them I suppose.

Physical violence?

Yes, the paper mentioned something.

I can tell you that there was one time . . .

That workaholic wife of his is burning the midnight oil again in the
study - I'll show it to you in a minute, it's beautiful - where was I?
She's on the laptop, putting the claret away. She's preparing another
big presentation that will lead to nothing; and she wants a fresh
perspective so she emails it to a colleague. While she's on the
internet she notices his cookies . . .

No, not biscuits, you clown.

You know, sites he's visited.

Oh you've guessed have you.

Not only that. Blokes.

Oh yes.

I know. I think he wanted her to find out. But he never told me
that.

She storms down the stairs, and confronts him in the kitchen. He
doesn't offer an excuse. He has no friends he can blame, because he -
they - have no real friends. No one who comes round to the house
anyway. So he just sits their silently, like a scolded kid.

What does she do then? Whack! She knocks him off the stool by smashing
her right fist down into his face, a devastating bruiser's blow, he
said. After which, she grabs him by the hair and drags him up the
stairs.

He says he can't remember much about this bit. Just that he was
whimpering all the while.

She undresses him on the floor. He's half conscious. She bundles him
into the freestanding bath.

It's gorgeous. I'll show you. Let's go upstairs.

I like the runner too.

I don't think it's pass?.

All Escher.

Some artist.

Voila! La salle de bains.

You're joking. That's all I can remember!

Yes. A fusion of Scandinavian simplicity and classic opulence that
works.

So you can picture her here, holding him down in the tub, smothering
his . . .

Yes.

With bleach. And she's frantically scrubbing them with a Brillo
pad.

And . . .

Yes, that's right. With a wire brush I think.

We didn't see him for weeks after that.

Christ only knows what he told the hospital.

No, he probably didn't.

We should go back downstairs now.

Yes that's the study in there. Have a quick butcher's hook.

Perfect, I reckon.

I know, a living nightmare. This went on for years. His confidence was
destroyed. No self-esteem. Never gave in to his desires, you know.
Couldn't. Kept it all bottled up.

Very stiff-upper-lip.

Nervous wreck with a twitch, he was. When I last saw him.

It was about a few years ago.

He became really ill after that. Sick.

Yes, she's supposed to have poisoned him slowly to death in that
time.

Police prime suspect.

Aw, it's a shame.

Although, you know. I'm not sure. He said something when I last saw him
- some time back - he said, "I don't know when - but soon - I'm going
to leave her. And when I do, she will never forget about me as long as
she lives."

What do you suppose he meant by that? Could he have taken his own life
in that grim, prolonged, painful way? He could make it look like it was
her, with a bit of brain-cell action. After all, who's going to believe
he would do that to himself?

Listen to me tittle-tattle.

You'd have to be really screwed up though, wouldn't you. Up to here
with it all.

Nasty business.

Know how he feels. Sort of.

So, do you think you'll put an offer in?

No, don't blame you.

I'll have to work on my pitch. My boss says I talk too much.