Trial Separation

TRIAL SEPARATION

The smell gave her away. 'Delicacy,' the cheapest, tackiest-named
perfume on last years market. That sickly, corrosive scent had been
etched on Richard's memory from the day he'd bought her the damn
bottle, a gift for her thirtieth birthday, a few short months before
whatever had been between them started to unravel.
His blood went through the strange alchemy of turning into lead. It
couldn't be her. Couldn't. It was a ghost smell, an echo of her
presence still lingering in the house where they'd shared so many
embraces, and laughs, and nightmares. He replaced the cigarette he'd
been smoking in the ashtray, trying to ignore the images on the TV,
trying to catch the scent again. Action News at Three was on. The story
just breaking concerned the escape of three prisoners from the Argyle
Correctional Facility for Women. The prisoners had killed a guard
during their escape, stabbed her to death. Two had been recaptured mere
hours after the alarm was raised. The third woman was still at
large.
Fear raised a clammy, crawling sensation on the back of Richard's
neck.
He knew who the third woman was, the same as he knew that the scent
he'd just caught again belonged to the one woman he had ever loved, and
the one woman he had hoped he would never see again. Not alive, at any
rate.
Some reclusive area of his senses had identified the smell upon first
entering the house, but it had been too faint, no warning bells had
sounded. He'd been too preoccupied with the thought of a cup of tea and
a couple of hours unwinding before picking Nellie up from the party. He
could hear the kettle now, building steam through the archway to the
kitchen . . . But, for god's sake, why hadn't he reacted to the smell?
He'd lived with her for five years, spent the last two of them trying
to bring back the woman he'd married. Warning bells? It should have
been a klaxon.
Maybe you were afraid to notice, he thought. Maybe it's like when you
hear a creak on the stairs while you're lying in bed alone at night,
and you start wondering if you locked the front door . . .
He reached for the remote. Action News had moved onto the 'And
Finally,' a light-hearted story about a retired architect who'd built a
quarter-scale replica of the Millennium Dome in his garden, and opened
it to the public. The people in charge of the actual Dome were not
impressed, it transpired, because Mr Gregson's humorous little novelty
was actually attracting almost as much attention as the Dome itself.
The screen showed Mr Gregson standing beside his creation; it looked
like a giant golfball had embedded itself in his lawn. The smile on
Gregson's face seemed to indicate he thought the whole affair
ridiculous: 'It was just a hobby,' he told the camera. 'Never thought
I'd get the country up in arms like this. It's not like I Ki -'
Richard thumbed the off button.
Jane was standing in the kitchen doorway.
The first thing to catch his attention was her hair. When they'd first
met that hair had been a heap of blonde curls, long, and glossy. He
used to joke that it looked like she was wearing a hat made of yellow
ribbons. Now it was black, and hacked short in a manner which seemed to
suggest the person cutting it had been the same one having it cut. The
second thing he noticed was that she was still beautiful. The last
thing he saw was the knife.
'Jane,' he said. His voice came out louder than he'd expected due to
the absence of the TV. 'How'd you get in?'
Jane said nothing. A smile sat beneath eyes that were bright with
hatred, fixed on him. She was wearing a prison uniform, a grey
flightsuit, with yellow stripes running up the legs and arms. The
knife, he noticed with some shock, was rusty with blood.
He tried a different tack: 'How'd you get out?'
The knife wove a quick, strange pattern. He was still trying to
interpret its meaning when she spoke. 'Thought you'd already know
that.' There was a watery quality to her voice, as though she was
talking through a mouthful of blood. An image of the prisoners fighting
with the guard flickered across Richard's mind, and he thought, Maybe
she is.
He said, 'What do you mean?'
The knife flicked in the direction of the TV. 'Catch the afternoon
news? I saw your reaction when they said I was still at large. Never
been able to understand that expression. What do you think, Dick? You
always thought I was ugly, but do I look "at large" to you?' A smile
broader than any he'd seen in three years of marriage spread across her
face. He couldn't answer. She'd been standing there watching him . . .
How long? Why hadn't she just killed him?
She guessed at his thoughts. 'Could have slit your throat as soon as
you walked through the door,' she grinned, 'but I wanted you to know
that it was me, your ever-loving wife.'
Post-Natal-Depression, he thought. That's what the doctors called it.
They were just too scared to come out an say 'latent schizophrenia.'
Even her parents wouldn't admit that their bloodline had been
tainted.
'We're not married anymore,' he said.
'Not in the eyes of The Law.'
Anger stirred in him at the mocking confidence of her tone. 'Jane, I
don't know how you got in, but get the hell out of my house.'
Her smile faded; it was like when you scrubbed the image on a
Magic-Board by peeling up the greasepaper. 'Your - ? We shared this
place, Dick. I kept it clean so you could bring back your moron
colleagues and their wives, so I could cook for them, and listen to
their shit whilst trying to keep from sticking a fork in my leg. I
cooked, cleaned, I washed the stains out of your fucking boxers. I - I
gave you a daughter here, Dick.'
The anger in him raised another notch. 'Don't say it, Jane. Don't you
say her name. You walked out on her the same moment you walked out on
me, so don't you - dare - mention - her.' He studied her reaction, at
the same time searching for a weapon. The remote was currently the best
bet. A bottle from the wine rack in the kitchen would be better, but
she'd be on him before he could get there.
Again, she read him correctly: 'I wouldn't, Dick. You know how good I
am with a knife.'
He almost smiled. It was something he'd always commented on while she
was busy fixing dinner for him (and his moron colleagues), chopping up
leeks or carrots or onions with neat little strokes, full of
concentration, pressing on the blade with the heel of her palm. Yes,
she was very good with the knife. He set the remote down. 'What do you
want?'
A new smile rose up. 'What do you think?'
'Well, if you've said your piece, and you want to kill me you'd better
get on with it.' His attempts at sounding fearless were diluted by
trembling.
'I want Nell.'
For a second he couldn't speak. She might as well have replied, 'I want
a house on the moon.' How could even the tiniest part of her believe
that she was going to get away with this? Losing Nell forever from her
life was something she'd seen to when she'd tried to stab him in that
restaurant three months earlier. Their daughter was his daughter now.
The Law had seen to that. 'That's not going to happen,' he said.
She moved a step closer, the first movement she'd made towards him
since first revealing herself. 'Where is she?' The tip of the blade was
making little circles. Richard could imagine the pattern repeating
itself in her mind as well: Insanity. It had come upon her like an
unwanted suitor just a year into their marriage, hot on the heels of
the jealousy, the abuse, the inner agonies she'd tried so hard to
conceal.
'Where is she?' Jane repeated.
Richard smiled. From the kitchen the sound of the boiling kettle grew
louder. 'Well, one, she's not here, and two, go fuck yourself.'
She ran for him. He threw himself from the couch a second before the
blade buried itself there, striking his shin on the coffee table as he
tumbled. Jane screamed. The blade came up, trailing an arc of cotton
padding. 'Where is she?'
Richard rolled onto his back, a flower of pain unfolded the length of
his thigh. His mind threw up an image of the last time, seated in that
busy restaurant in Soho, the one where they served your food in thirty
seconds and gave you thirty seconds to eat it. The last time she'd
tried to kill him. 'Goddamn it!' he screamed. 'Jane, stop! Think what
you're doing. The police know about you and me. They're probably
already on their way.'
'I thought there was no "you and me." ' She was advancing around the
table, her face devoid of emotion. It was like watching a possession
take place. 'You may have torn up our little contract, but don't think
you get to keep Nell.'
Using the armchair to pull himself up, Richard ran (Please God let the
door be unlocked okay?) for the hallway. The key was sticking from the
hole. The odds were even. He could hear the belated thuds of her
approach, her breaths at once bemused and outraged. She'd sounded this
way when she'd attacked him in the restaurant, out of control with
paranoia. He'd once joked - before the joke lost its flavour - that it
was her 'Other Jane.' It was the side of her they'd both tried to keep
from their daughter. Now she was back, and trying to kill him. He
reached the door, made a quick decision in favour of the handle (If the
door was locked he wouldn't have time for the key anyway), and
twisted.
The door was locked.
'Think I'm stupid?'
He turned, urging his expression to defiance. It failed the moment he
saw what she was doing: The blade was travelling horizontally across
her face, leaving a thin red wake which quickly grew broader. Blood
pouring now, blood on her lips, a sheet of redness cascading past her
right eye.
'Jane, are you fucking crazy? What are you doing?'
'Same as I'm going to do to you. The toned down version.'
'Please . . .'
'What?'
'Please, just go.' He felt the hotness of tears upon his cheeks, and
brushed them away. The hallway clock to his right was angled from him,
but he could make out the hands. Three-fifteen. Nellie, he thought.
Wonder what you're doing now.. He could picture it. Streamers in bright
coils around the room, the kids grouped at the table, cramming their
faces with as much food as they could manage so they could get to the
cake quicker. Glad she pestered me so much about that damn party, he
thought. Hate her to see this.
'Now,' Jane lowered the knife, 'unless you've lost enough fat to
squeeze through the letterbox, I suggest you come here.'
He turned the key, the handle. The door remained shut. Glancing up, he
had time to acknowledge the drawn-bolt before she was upon him. The
knife sank into his left shoulder with a noise like a nail being
punched through rotten wood. He screamed, and caught her hand with his.
'Oh Jesus!' He wrenched her hand up, but she released the handle before
the blade was fully out. A torrent of warmth ran down his back. Pain.
It felt like a burning coal had been sealed beneath the shoulder blade.
Still screaming he grabbed the knife handle and pulled it the remainder
of the way out. Blood bubbled from the cut, concealing its edges. She
kicked him in the shins, and he went down. Then she was astride him,
striking the back of his head, trying to uproot his hair. He rolled,
forcing her between him and the wall, and tried to push back. She dug
her nails into the bloody ruin of his shoulder, and this time the agony
was too much. Blackness filled the world.

Someone was shaking him. 'Rich? Richard, wake up.'
He tried to summon focus, but pain kept it at bay. Even in his
confusion he knew that this pain was only the beginning. He cracked his
eyes open. Was she wearing the low cut blue dress she'd picked up from
Camden Market, the one with the flowers that looked like roses but
weren't? Were they in bed? Was it time to go to work already?
'Richard?' There was something wrong with her face. She looked like a
woman who'd been trying to apply lipstick on a bus with bad
suspension.
'What?' he said, coming awake with a horrible, reluctant slowness. It
was like falling asleep in reverse.
'Goddamn it, Dick, wake the fuck up!' She slapped him, and he saw that
the dream had deceived him. The blue dress was gone, the loving tone
was gone. Neither had been there in the first place. It was today, not
three years ago. The pain was a burning brand in his shoulder.
Her face was coated with drying blood.
He was in the kitchen, facing the window. Sunlight streamed through it
to paint the opposite wall, where Nell's paintings had been tacked: A
lopsided house with four windows and an upended V roof . . . A car with
two wheels in the driveway . . . Balloon-headed Daddy and Mummy holding
hands . . . The window had been smashed, letting in warm draughts of
summer air. The kettle had either stopped or been turned off. A faint
breeze curled the steam at its lip.
He was tied to the kitchen chair.
'How'd you feel?' The question had a tender quality which he didn't
much care for. It was like a pilot telling you not to worry as the
plane hurtles toward the earth.
'Go to hell,' he mumbled through clenched teeth.
She laughed. She was still holding the knife, drawing invisible figures
of eight in the air. 'Now, Dickless, we're going to have a little
discussion. A quick "Q and A." For every wrong answer you get cut.
Answer wrong too many times and you really will be dick-less.
Understand?' Her prison uniform was stained with fresh circles of
blood. Hers and his.
He nodded.
The knife swerved a little closer, enough for him to feel its warm edge
upon his cheek.
'First question.' She drew a stool from beneath the kitchen table. The
same stool she'd sat on to feed their baby daughter, all those
wonderful, irrecoverable years ago. 'Where's Nell?'
The knife continued to dance before him, the pain continued to swell.
He fought it. 'I'm not telling you that, Jane. We both know there isn't
a chance in hell of you ever taking her from me, but I'm not about to
let you scar her with more bad memories.'
The knife drew a line down the right side of his face. His head snapped
back, spraying a red fan across the kitchen wall. His scream betrayed
the shock of it.
Jane was laughing. 'Okay, we'll get back to that one. Question two.
Where are the keys to the car?'
He noticed she hadn't said 'your car.' She'd drifted back into the
world where they were the perfect couple. The world that had never
existed. He nodded at the hooks nailed to the opposite wall and said,
'There.'
She kept the knife against his cheek as she turned. 'Good.' She turned
back. 'How much money do you have on you?'
'About thirty pounds.'
'What about upstairs?' She was referring to the savings jar on the
bedside table. That had been her idea, but in all the time they'd been
together it had never risen above a hundred or so.
'Emptied it, then smashed it, last summer. You think I'm going to leave
even the slightest reminder of you lying around?'
Her smile evaporated, leaving the hard lines of rage. 'You
bastard.'
He nodded. 'That's right. You bitch.'
The knife moved closer, so close its edges became blurred. 'I'm going
to kill you, you know?'
He nodded again. 'Be worth it to be rid of you.'
She drew the knife across his left cheek. He locked the scream inside,
helpless against the flood of images which now assailed him. He
remembered her standing behind him while he shaved, her smile reflected
in the steamed mirror, he remembered the time she'd caught him laying
roses on her pillow, he remembered the birth of their daughter, and the
night he'd proposed. He remembered the trial. Memories ran out of him,
the love, the goodness. Tears of pain and regret burned his cheeks,
mingled with the blood. Their bittersweet tang filled the back of his
throat.
'Last question,' she said. 'Do you still love me?'
He laughed. It had to be now; he couldn't risk even the smallest chance
of her finding Nell. Using his feet as bolster he pushed himself back
in the chair, almost overbalancing, then threw his weight forward. His
forehead connected with her chin, and she flailed backwards, the knife
sailing from her outstretched hand. Momentum carried him after her,
smashing them onto the chequered linoleum. Fresh pain as his nose broke
hid the sound of her head striking the edge of the table, and the
impact as she collapsed upon him. The scream which had threatened
earlier now escaped him. He tried to open his eyes, but blood had
already sealed them. Its warmth slicked his face. Blackness
again.

The phone was ringing.
'Jane?' He said, after a few seconds.
Nothing. Had he killed her? He'd seen enough movies and read enough
books to know that it was unlikely.
The phone rang six times then cut off.
Steeling against the pain he forced his eyes open; they parted with a
wet, kissing sound, revealing the dark crop of her hair, her arm in an
awkward inverted V, the black and white squares of the kitchen floor
shiny with sunlight, and . . . And the knife . . . He pushed up with
one shoulder, then the other, trying to dislodge her. Still no sound.
After three or four shoves she tumbled off. A jolt of pain seemed to
travel through every fibre of his body, but he fought it, rocking the
chair onto its side, so that his back was to the knife. Using his right
forearm, hips, and feet he inched towards it. The peculiar method
proved successful. Searching with trembling fingers he located the
knife, manoeuvred it blade down, and sawed at whatever she'd used as
bonds. He tried not to look at her as he worked, tried to think instead
of what he would do if and when she lifted from the floor and came for
him.
A schtk as the knife cut through. The ropes went loose.
He urged himself upright, then onto his feet. Agony spread hot tendrils
through his forehead. A tree of pain taking root. 'Jane,' he whispered
again. It didn't sound like his voice. Staggering, he caught hold of
the sink, saw that the knife was still in his hand, and tossed it
through the open window. He turned. A breeze from the window cooled his
neck. He saw the stripe of blood which ran down the folded table edge,
and thought, That came from her head. It was absurd; this was the woman
he had promised to love, the woman he had loved . . . How had things
slipped so far? And what if she was dead. What if he'd split her skull,
or shocked her into a coma, or -?
God forgive me, he thought. I've killed my daughters mother.
A sound from the hallway. He turned towards the sound, then realised.
It was the sound of the front door handle being turned. The police! He
started for the doorway, but another noise halted him. This one
unmistakable. Somebody was trying to enter a key. He could hear the
scraping sound as it fought against the one already in the lock.
Only one other person had a key to the house.
'Nellie!' he screamed.
'Daddy? I can't get in.'
'Stay where you are.'
'Mr Alwood?'
A wave of horror sent his heart into a gallop. It was Nancy, the
childminder. The girl who was supposed to be taking care of Nell at the
party. 'Mr Alwood, I'm sorry if we woke you. Nell insisted we come
back. I tried to call. She said she felt bad. Is your key in the
door?'
'No, Nancy.' Nell's voice again. 'I said I had a bad feeling. Daddy,
are you okay?'
'Please, get away!' He searched at his feet for the knife, forgetting
it was gone.
'Nell?' Jane said with druggy slowness, and he screamed. Beneath the
table her awkward form was beginning to rise. 'Nell? Is it Nell?' Her
eyes opened with a glazed roundness made all the more manic by the
blood, like warpaint, across her cheeks.
'Daddy, who's in there?' Her voice louder now. Richard guessed that she
was speaking through the letterbox.
'Nancy, for God's sake, get her out of here! RUN!'
'My baby,' Jane half-sobbed, no longer seeing him. She started for the
doorway.
Richard looked at the kettle, the steam settling as the breeze lessened
upon his neck. He ran for it, grasped the handle with one hand, pulled
the cord from the wall with the other, and threw it at her. The spout
struck her temple, dislodging the lid, sending its full contents across
her face. For a second the water seemed to cleanse her face of blood
and nothing else, and then she was screaming, falling to the ground,
hammering fists against her face. The scream which funnelled from her
mouth was the epitome of agony. Richard had never heard so terrible a
sound.
He ran for her, caught her in his arms. Her hands came away, revealing
a pinkish landscape, already peeling, bubbling. Her eyes, once a
beautiful greyish-green that he had fallen into each night, had been
scorched white. They looked like two infested poached eggs. Her body
went into shudders. Her scream died, but the trembling persisted.
He screamed for her.
'Daddy?!'
He didn't hear her.
'Mr Alwood, what's happening? Mr Alwood?'
He didn't hear the clamour of sirens ten minutes later. He was still
holding her when four armed riot police broke down the door, and
started yelling for him to move away. And when they tried to wrestle
him from her motionless body he held tighter still. 'She's dead,' he
screamed at them. 'Let her be.'
He only let her go when Nell ran into the room, and started
screaming.