Dennis

Dennis searched among the bottles of brightly-coloured nail varnishes and tins of various powders and sprays for his favourite deodorant. He thought how much simpler life in the bathroom would be if he didn't have to share it with a female. He imagined the joy of leaving the toilet seat up whenever he wanted. He would be beside himself with pleasure as he gleefully covered that bloody pink emulsion with bright red. The shower control would be left on six and not zero, so that when he stood under the shower head and pulled the cord, pleasantly warm water would flow over him rather than the frozen chunks of ice which now bombarded his delicate skin, where she had used the shower to wash the bath after one of her beauty sessions. And why don't women think to tell you, just as you follow them in, that they've just used a gallon of heavy sweet musk? That's far too simple for them; they would much rather you stroll innocently into a wall of pungency so strong it rips the lining from your nose and throat in less than a second. If that isn't enough, when you have the good fortune to gain access before them, your raw nasal passages are greeted by a strong smell of pineapple or roses, emanating from a small plastic object shaped remarkably like a phallic symbol, sitting on top of the cistern.

With frustration pouring from every body movement and muscle twitch, Dennis tugged open the bathroom door. Dropping his chin onto his chest to control his rapidly deepening breathing, he clamped his teeth together.

"Darling, have you seen my Gladiator Extra Strong?"

He waits patiently for his words to travel down the stairs and into the kitchen, where, he assumes, his dearly beloved Josie, is applying the final touches to her gastronomic delight, beef goulash. When he doesn't receive an answer within a reasonable time, he calls again, a little louder this time.

"Josie...where's my bloody deodorant?"

Almost immediately her pleasant but firm voice floats up the stairs.

"No need to shout dear, I heard you the first time."

Dennis's hand fiddles nervously with the door handle. He looks at the landing wall and whispers an old Army obscenity, before demanding,

"Well?"

"Did you look behind the spare toilet roll?"

His knuckles whiten as he grips the handle tighter. What would his deodorant be doing, keeping a new roll of toilet paper company?

During his search he'd considered an illogical approach, but foolishly dismissed it, thinking that even a woman does some things with forethought and planning. He tried not to think that what she was saying could possibly be true.

"No dear, I never thought of that. Thank you dear," he mutters at the pink panelling.

He casts a weary eye around the room. Somehow it has become different in the last few moments. Whereas, a short while ago, it was just an ordinary bathroom, now it was a place of intrigue and secrets. It wasn't enough for him to think that his deodorant might be hiding behind an innocent packet of toilet paper. What if he squeezed the toothpaste and a strongly smelling minty rope curled through the air and wrapped itself around his throat? Perhaps there was a dark-featured swarthy middle-eastern secret agent, with a cyanide tablet held firmly between his teeth, and sweat pouring down his face, hiding behind the shower curtain. Laying around his feet would be tiny bits of paper, the remnants of confidential plans he'd just eaten, confirming the existence of a new stay-slimmer girdle.

Dennis suddenly felt very vulnerable. Goose-pimples the size of golf balls seemed to be bursting from his skin. He leant back against the salmon-coloured door he hated so much.

"Don't think I don't know you're there," he spluttered through clenched teeth.

The only sound was a muted drip of water from inside the cistern. He knew the problem. It was the ballcock inside that needed adjusting. He'd meant to do it on several occasions in the past, but it had always slipped his mind. But wait, he thought, maybe it wasn't the sound of water dripping. What if it was a timer on a bomb, slowly ticking towards his destruction? It could be, because only last week he'd taken out a new insurance policy. She may have hidden his deodorant on purpose, so that he would have to spend longer in the bathroom than normal. Yes, it was a simple plan really. He wouldn't be able to find the deodorant, he would call and ask her where it was. She would know he was still in the bathroom. Bang! It was probably remote controlled, to give her time to slip out into the garden, where she would be able to set it off without any danger to herself.

He tiptoed over to the toilet and put his ear close to the rose-coloured plastic. With a sigh of relief he heard the gentle plop of the leaking water. He stood up, but what if it were a red herring? She could be letting him make himself presentable. Allowing him to dress sensibly with a decent tie, gold cufflinks and brown corduroy dinner-jacket, and then kill him. Maybe her mind had become twisted and macabre. She might be able to murder him only if he was clean and tidy? He pictured his bright red blood pouring unhindered from large gaping wounds, passing over scrupulously sanitised skin and splashing onto the floor. It was an ugly thought. He couldn't really see her slashing at him with a knife. It had to be the Goulash. While he stood here smelling of cheap-soap perfume, she was probably filling his Brussels-sprouts with Tippex.

Dennis peered cautiously over the top of the new packet of toilet paper. He could just see the dark shape of his Gladiator spray. With as steady a hand as he could muster, he gingerly took hold of the top of the can. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth as he began to lift it. Stopping halfway, he opened his eyes to examine underneath and around it for electrical wiring. When he'd satisfied himself it was safe, he pulled it clear.
With the deodorant finally in his hands, Dennis could feel his muscles beginning to relax. The small tissues in his face pulled his lips into a hugely victorious smile. He shivered at the thought of his narrow escape. He spoke quietly and triumphantly at the closed door.

"And don't think for one minute I'm going to eat any vegetables tonight."

He gripped the cap of the Gladiator spray firmly and began to unscrew.

****

There was a long queue waiting outside the pearly gates. Dennis was sure he should be cold with just a small towel wrapped around his waist. The ringing of a bicycle bell attracted his attention. A rather plump man, looking remarkably like Billy Butlin, was pushing a two-wheeled barrow. A large rainbow coloured canopy stretched over the top.

"I'd offer you a cheap hamburger," the Billy Butlin look alike said. "But it looks like you wouldn't be able to pay me."

Dennis was a little embarrassed but even more impatient.

"I'd rather know how long I've got to stand in this queue?" he said. "This piece of spray-can stuck up my nose is becoming uncomfortable."

"It's no good trying to rush things here. You'll be up by the gates before you know it."

Dennis tried to make himself taller, by standing on tiptoe and looking towards the front of the line to see what was happening.

"Why is it so slow?" he asked.

"Well the first question they ask is, are you married? If you say yes, you're moved into another line. Then, if you're injured, like you, they ask if you think your spouse did it."

"I think mine did."

"Don't you know?"

Dennis thought hard, but all he could remember was a blinding flash and a strong sweet smell.

"How did you get that piece of tin stuck up your nose?"

"I was trying to have a shower. But there was a swarthy secret agent with a time bomb hiding behind the shower curtains. She must have done us both. I wonder where he is?"

The Billy Butlin look alike picked up his barrow.

"Oh... he'll be in the swarthy secret agent line just around the corner. They have to approach from the west. Well good luck when you reach the front, and you're going to need it."

"Why, she murdered me?" Dennis said.

"Nothing to do with that. You smell like a gladiator and it's a Christian on duty today."