Half-Shift

John changed into his overalls and tied the laces of his sturdy work boots. It was the night before Christmas Eve. He finished his warm mug of coffee, grabbed his bag and kissed his wife on the cheek before stepping out into the amber-lit street. The pavement had a translucent coat of fresh snow which was accumulating slowly as the snowflakes delicately descended from the night sky. John turned back to the door which was preemptively opened by his wife who was clutching his coat, hat and gloves. How he loved her. They said their farewells as John got into his van, waited for the hot air to warm the cabin sufficiently and carefully manoeuvred out of the street.

John conducted his journey slowly partially due to the icy roads, but mainly due to his resentment for his occupation. John hated the monotony of factory work but attended every shift punctually and with a smile. He considered himself lucky as it was necessary for him to provide and opportunity for employment in the area was rare. On each side of the van the windows and walls of the terraced houses were adorned with flickering multi-coloured Christmas lights which gave the impression of racing behind him due to his motion. He and his wife Gwyneth were childhood sweethearts who had married as soon as they were able. This time of year always seemed difficult for them given that her infertility had denied the couple the most rewarding pleasure of the festive period. His van meandered around the curvaceous valley road towards his destination, his mind hopeful that this Christmas would be different.

John turned into the factory car park and frowned solemnly at the ugly citadel of labour. He pulled his van into the space closest to the entrance and dragged his thick winter jacket across his broad shoulders before stepping out into the weather. The wind and persistent snow combined to reduce his visibility as his heavy frame strode towards a huddle of figures loitering in the shelter outside the large open entrance to the factory.

“Alright John?” called one of the figures as he approached.

“How you doing boys?” he replied clutching into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette to join the smokers. The men nodded their greetings in unison.

“Not bad fella, so you reckon we’ll have a white Christmas this year then? Me and the lads got a little sweepstake on the go and by the looks of things I’m gonna be in the money.”

John smiled, “I wouldn’t count your chickens yet Mike it’s only coming down light it’ll be clear by Christmas Day.”

“Want to put your money where your mouth is then?” retorted Mike his lips curling into a sly smile as he dragged on his cigarette.

“I wouldn’t see you if I won! You wanna watch this one boys he’s a devious bastard let me tell you,” joked John as he threw his burly arm around the shoulder of Mike whose thick black moustache bounced as he laughed.

“Fuck off you daft prick!”

The men continued their jesting before their audience of amused young workers before discarding their cigarettes into the snow and clocking in. John headed straight to the back of the factory to the machine he had worked five nights a week for over a decade and set about his familiar routine. He sometimes romanticised his work in an attempt to attribute a grand purpose to his tedium. He liked to consider how all the material goods that people use, wear, work for and desire were manufactured by men and women like him. The clothes he was wearing, the machine he was operating and the floor he stood on were all once ideas in some person’s mind somewhere that could only be physically realised through the sweat and skill of those on the assembly line. Factories are where some kind of alchemy occurs, where base materials pulled from the earth are transformed into something more valuable. A decade of mundane twelve-hour shifts would make a philosopher of anyone. Ultimately though he only endured the crushing repetition for the sake of Gwyneth.

This shift was made considerably easier as he planned to surprise her with a trip to Australia for the New Year as a Christmas gift. John set about his tasks with his mind in a different continent altogether that possessed a climate, at this time of year, favourably alien to the conditions beyond the factory walls. Gwyneth was going to be thrilled. The hands of the clock completed their cycles generously as John was lost in a land of fantasy. The first hour of his shift passed without notice. Unexpectedly he felt a large hand from behind grab his shoulder and he spun round. It was the foreman. John slipped off his protective earphones.

“Half-shift John, snow is coming down bloody merciless out there, finish up and clock-out!”

John nodded, wiped the sweat from his brow and completed his task. He hurried towards the exit slipping his arms into his jacket sleeves as he walked. With any luck he could catch Gwyneth before she fell asleep and besides he had no intention of getting stranded in heavy snow for the night. Mike was stood by the exit with a childlike grin etched across his face.

“It’s a fucking winter wonderland out there!”

John smiled and returned, “Like a fucking coca-cola advert Mike! Bet you’re chuffed! You wanna make a move soon though before it gets worse.”

“Yeah I’m just waiting for Tom and Butch to finish up, give my regards to Gwynnie buddy you two have a good time down-under!”

“Will do thanks pal, Merry Christmas,” said John with a wink.

The weather was thick and relentless. The virgin snow crunched under John’s heavy boots creating a trail of deep footprints behind him as he trod towards his van. There was a kind of surreal beauty to the scene as the dense whiteness that fell out of the heavens was met with the ascent of the grey smog that wheezed up out of the factory’s towering pipes. However the rare spectacle was missed by the cheerful workmen as they hurried to return home.

The familiarity of John’s return journey was dreamily distorted by the darkness and snowfall. He was in good spirits and bellowed along to the songs he recognised on the radio.
His song was interrupted, “This is a severe weather warning for South East Wales. Heavy snow is expected this morning. Drivers in the affected area are advised to only make essential journeys and to keep blankets, food supplies and a shovel with them on longer journeys. We’ll keep you informed with weather updates periodically. Thank You.” finished the announcer and the music resumed.

John’s smile stretched wide across his face as he turned into his street and parked his van. He had no intention of leaving home whilst the weather persisted. The front window of his terraced house was illuminated by the artificial light that phased through the drawn curtains of his living room out onto the reflective snow which carpeted the street. Gwyneth was still awake.

John rustled in his overall pockets for his house-keys outside his door as snow-flakes nestled on his widespread blue-collar shoulders. Loud, fast-paced music hummed out of the house next-door as the young tenants celebrated the season. Another night he may have taken issue with the noise but given his good mood and desire to embrace his wife he decided that tonight he didn’t want to be the guy who spoils the fun. He recovered his keys, opened the front door and swung open the passage door before him to enter the living room.

“What the fuck!!” he howled.

Gwyneth was cradled in the arms of another man on his couch. She swiftly jaunted up onto her feet to confront him. In one motion he brushed her aside knocking her to the ground as he bundled forward towards the young man who too was scrambling up. John’s heavy fist crashed into the man’s jaw splattering blood across the wall. The man struggled to stand as John gripped his hair to pull him into position for another powerful blow.

“John stop! Please no!” begged Gwyneth hysterically from the floor as tears gushed down her cheeks.

John’s eyes were wide and mad, his ears deaf. He beat heavily on the delicate features of the man’s face who whimpered desperately for a reprieve from the assault. The young man’s head banged down against the wooden floor, his face a gory mess of blood and snot, as John towered over him spitting his words.

“Stupid fuck! Come into my house! Fucking my wife!”

“John stop! Please! Leave him!”

John’s face was scarlet with fury. He raised his work boot high above the man’s face and savagely stamped down. He pulled his leg up and stamped down again, and again. Gwyneth grabbed him from behind but he pushed her away and with one wild jab knocked his wife unconscious. He resumed. He felt her lover’s skull crack under the force of his work-boots but continued until he couldn’t muster the energy to carry on.

John struggled to catch his breath and turned his head away in disgust from the perfectly still rose-coloured pulp that lay in the stead of what had been a handsome young face. The back of John’s neck and head tingled intensely and he felt as though his stomach was going to fall straight out of his body. He darted to the kitchen, lunged his head over the sink and wretched violently as if in a vain attempt to expel the evil from his person. John swilled the vomit from his mouth with tap-water before swiftly grabbing a glass and a bottle of whisky from the kitchen cupboards. He shakily poured himself a drink and gulped it down. He immediately refilled, lit a cigarette and proceeded to pace about the kitchen like a new arrival at the zoo.

What had he done? What had she done? For how long? Why? These questions overwhelmed John’s consciousness as his mind darted back and forth between them, struggling with their crude unintelligibility. He drank deeply out of his whiskey glass. He was suddenly seized upon by the one blatantly pertinent question. What was he going to do now?

His blood-stained boots marched back and forth across the kitchen carpet. He’d done a bad thing, a very bad thing. He felt remorse for what he’d done to that bastard lying dead on his living room floor sure but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he didn’t deserve this. He was a loving husband, a faithful husband. He didn’t deserve to be put in this situation let alone go to prison for murder. His mind raced. How was he going to get out of this?

His eyes dashed downwards in defeat. In the madness he’d forgotten about the snow. “The fucking snow,” he muttered. If he didn’t leave soon he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. He’d be spending Christmas Eve with a corpse. That lad in there must have someone who would miss him today and definitely tomorrow on Christmas Day. Parents, friends, a girlfriend or wife, kids even, “Jesus” whispered John his nausea returning. And what about Gwyneth? What was he going to do when she wakes up screaming and hysterical? John sighed and slowly opened the living room door.

Gwyneth’s slender figure was draped flatteringly by her navy nightgown as she lay face down on the floor her head and face covered by her thick blond hair. Thankfully he could distinguish her back was slowly easing up and down rhythmically, she was breathing, she was alive. He could hear the faint drone of the music next door, the party was still going, he hoped this meant the noise of the commotion had been drowned out and the revellers were still oblivious to what had happened. He treaded carefully around the small pool of blood that had leaked out of the man’s face and reached into the unfamiliar jacket that lay untidily on the sofa’s arm. He retrieved a mobile phone from the pocket and took the battery out. He didn’t want any missed calls to arouse early suspicion. What was he going to do with the body? He tried the other pocket hoping to find a wallet and an ID. He didn’t even know who he’d killed. What he found instead sent chills racing up his back. Car-keys. Fucking Car Keys. He bet that cocky bastard who’d shagged his wife in his own living room had parked his car in the street and with the snow he had no time to both hide it and flee. As soon as people realised the lad was missing it would be game-over for John.

He removed his overalls and scarlet-splattered boots and replaced them with clothes that he found resting on the kitchen radiator and a pair of casual black trainers. John took the keys out into the street, the snow was falling rapidly but he figured he could still get his van out onto the gritted main road with a little effort. His heart danced in his chest as he pressed the electronic unlock button on the car keys and sank as a swift double-beep confirmed his fears. He spun round to re-enter the house.

“Hey John alright buddy? Sorry about the noise we’ll turn it down for you now,” said one of the two drunken young men perched unnoticed on next-door’s windowsill.

John was frozen to the spot his mind stammering for a response. They moved closer.

“Hey John are you ok pal? You look kinda unwell? Is everything alright?”

“No,” John replied gravely, thinking on his feet. “Look boys you couldn’t do me a massive favour could ya? I’ve just had a phonecall now and my mams been taken into hospital. If I get you two a shovel could you clear the snow out from around my tyres and off the windshield and that? I gotta get a few things together and get over there.”

“Oh shit! Of course fella, no problem.”

“Cheers boys. Be back now!”

John raced through the house past the bleeding corpse and his unconscious wife to collect the shovel and quickly returned. He handed the shovel to his young neighbours who got to work and turned the ignition of his van to warm it up before darting back inside the house closing the door behind him. John raced upstairs and retrieved a few blankets and two travel-bags one of which he frantically stuffed with clothes. He sped back down the stairs and headed to the kitchen and stuffed the other travel bag with tinned food, crisps, biscuits and a few large bottles of water. He then headed out the back door through the snow and into his garden shed. He flicked the light switch revealing a glorious hoard of tools, trash and gardening equipment. He scoured through the junk to retrieve some rope and, after ten long minutes of searching, a roll of duct-tape he’d used a few months ago when repairing his van’s side mirror. John re-entered his living room and tightly bound Gwyneth’s hands and feet and gently rolled her over to duct-tape her mouth. He recoiled at the reddish bruise his fist had left on her eye before softly covering her large violet lips with a rectangle of jet-black duct-tape.

He headed outside with the travel-bags. The young men had been joined by more members of their party with shovels and brooms that were focussing on clearing the road as well as around his vehicle so he could exit the street easily. John felt overwhelmed by their kindness.

“Boys I don’t know what to say, you’ve done a cracking job, thank you.”

“It’s no problem John, its Christmas mun, we just hope your mam gets well soon ini,” replied his neighbour returning his shovel which John tossed into the back of his van with the travel-bags.

“Cheers lads, I owe you more than one.” John paused, “I gotta go have a word with my wife before I go she’s a little shaken up by the news. You wouldn’t mind stopping the party would you Dan I just want her to get some rest tonight?”

“No problem mate, this lot are heading off now anyway and I’m going to bed. Hope your mam’s ok.”

“Thanks Dan, you’re a lifesaver,” said John firmly shaking the hand of the drunken Dan, his bruised knuckles obscured by the night, as the rest of the youngsters stumbled round the corner of the street out of view. “Goodnight and have a good Christmas”.

John entered his house. Gwyneth lay face down in her binds under the branches of a small Christmas tree, her bloody lover lay leaking in a heap on the other side of the room by the sofa. Could he just leave her here? What if she woke up and somehow managed to break free and alert the police? How long would he last in these conditions before they caught up with him? Or worse what if she couldn’t break free and died here of starvation next to the young corpse? A sinister thought crossed John’s mind which he dismissed almost as soon as it arrived. He wasn’t a monster, and besides, despite the pain she had caused him with her betrayal, this was still his childhood sweetheart, his wife of almost twenty eight years. He had to take her with him but where could they go?

John quickly cleared the contents of Gwyneth’s wardrobe into large carrier bags, leaving aside a few jumpers and trousers. As he turned to exit the bedroom John’s own set of drawers caught his eye and he recalled his original escape strategy. He sifted under his worn, disused clothes and retrieved the tickets and passports he had hidden in preparation to surprise his wife.

Could he rearrange the date of the flight? He needed to leave as soon as possible. Could he forgive his wife and persuade her to come with him? What if he couldn’t? Where would they go from Australia? They wouldn’t be safe there for long.

John understood how far-fetched this plan seemed but he wasn’t in the position to discard opportunities so he shoved the tickets and passports into his pocket and returned downstairs. He carefully untied Gwyneth’s bonds and dressed her warmly with the jumpers and trousers he had recovered from her wardrobe. He bound her hands and feet, hoisted her over his shoulder and grabbed the carrier bags he’d filled with her clothes before loading them all into the back of his van. John returned, grabbed the whisky bottle from the kitchen and turned off the living-room light leaving his victim’s ugly carcass to bleed in the darkness. He then locked the front door of the house and pulled out of the street on the path the drunken young men had cleared for him.

His van’s cabin was silent besides the gentle bluster of the heaters, the whir of the windscreen wipers and the rustling crunch of the orange-red grit under the cautious roll of his heavy tyres. John wanted to keep noise to a minimum. He didn’t want Gwyneth to become lucid yet, he wasn’t ready to face her and, curious as he was in his ignorance, he feared her answers to the questions that troubled him. He rolled slowly through the humble high-street of his village. It always seemed like a different place in the dark, when the shop shutters were pulled down and people had retired to bed, you could walk freely along the road markings like you were the last man alive. The heavy snow had amplified this effect and John felt solace in the sensation. As he passed the personal landmarks of his village, the workingman’s club, friends houses, his childhood school, and pushed on away into the wintery night, John wondered whether he would ever be able to return home.

He had decided that he would head out to a reservoir at the top of the valley which was only a few miles ahead. Nobody would venture up there in this weather and he needed to get off the roads quickly before they were made untenable. From the safety of the wilderness he could hash things out with his wife and plot his next move.

Gwyneth was awoken by the sway of the slow-moving van as it climbed the icy road towards the reservoir. The disorientation of her waking moment was intruded by the harsh involuntary insights of her senses and memory. Her battered eye stung as it pressed against the cold metal floor and she was immediately aware of her uncomfortable restraints. She could see her captor smoking at the wheel, unaware she was awake, as the windscreen wipers fought the falling snow. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye as she recalled the fate of her lover and how this was all the consequence of her decisions. She closed her eyes in submission to circumstance, she could only wait patiently to discover whatever it was her husband had in store for her.

John parked at the bank of the reservoir. He drank deeply from the whisky bottle he had brought with him and used the burning tip of his dying cigarette to light another. It was time to wake Gwyneth. He stepped out of the van and shuffled around to the back, flicked his cigarette into the night and flung open the doors. Gwyneth’s heart raced. He stepped into the back and closed the doors behind him. In the dim light he rolled Gwyneth over onto her back. His stomach dropped as he observed the fear in her wide blue eyes encircled by the purple bruise his fist had left her. He sharply ripped off the duct tape. Gwyneth opened and closed her stinging mouth to alleviate the tension that had been placed on her jaw muscles by the tape.

“John?” she murmured.

“Shut the fuck up and you listen to me!” he interjected. “What? Why?” he stumbled on each word. “How the fuck could you do this?”

“Look John...”

“No I was always there for you! Always supported you! You selfish bitch! And look what you’ve caused now? This is all your fault!”

“John I never meant...”

“Never meant to what!? Never meant to fucking what!? Never meant for me to come home and catch you, you mean?”

“I’m sorry John I never meant to hurt you, I got lonely and...”

“Lonely?!? I’ve always been there for you!”

“No John you haven’t. I know it sounds selfish to say,” she paused. “You sleep all day, work all night, on the weekends you’re drinking in the club, I’m always on my own and...”

“Are you fucking serious?? Poor Gwyneth! I’ve been out working to feed you and clothe you and put a fucking roof over your head and you’ve been shagging someone else?!? Who is he anyway this fucking Romeo? How old is he?”

“His name is Chris, I met him a few months ago when I was out with Sandra and...”

“Sandra! that fucking slag! I bet she was behind this!”

“No she wasn’t! It just happened John, I’m sorry! is he OK?”

“He’s far from fucking OK Gwyn! That was his last hurrah shagging you on my couch, the dopey bastard!” said John with spite.

“No! John what have you done!?” cried Gwyneth as a tear ran away from her eye.

“What have I done!? This is your fucking fault! If you hadn’t been such a slag this would never have happened.”

John’s voice strained and he slouched down to the floor with his wife who struggled to take control of her tears and quivering. They paused as each tried to assess how to move forward, how to control their emotions in order to speak constructively.

“Look Gwynnie, I can’t deal with all this now, I’ve got tickets for us to go to Australia, I can’t stay here, I don’t deserve to go to jail for this, will you come with me? We can sort this out again.”

“Are you fucking insane John? Have you lost the plot?!?” Gwyneth’s grief subsided to anger. “You’ve fucking killed him John! Going to Australia ain’t gonna solve anything!”

“I figured we’d try go Indonesia or somewhere from there?” replied John slightly taken aback by Gwyneth’s boldness.

“Don’t be so stupid! We wouldn’t last five minutes and you’re bonkers if you think I’d go with you after this!”

“It was your fault though, that kid’s death it’s your fault! If you hadn’t been...”

“Yeah ok I shouldn’t have been shagging him! I should have tried to talk to you and let you know how I’ve been feeling. I’m sorry for that John but you fucking killed him! There’s no excuse for that!”

“No...I..Uh”

“Look John please will you untie me?”

“No I think we need to talk about this in the morning when you can think straight.”

“No! John don’t!”

John sealed the duct tape back over Gwyneth’s mouth and her pleas were muffled. He wrapped her in blankets as she shook in anger. “Look darling you need to get some rest I think tonight’s just been too much. We’ll talk about this in the morning and hopefully you’ll see sense.”

John exited through the back doors of the van into the blistering blizzard outside. He quickly climbed back into the driver seat and swigged his whiskey. His windshield was now covered with snow, he felt encased like he was drinking in a tomb. He wished he could see out onto the reservoir. On a summers morning the man-made lake and surrounding mountains were the most beautiful place in the world. His grandfather had taught him to fish there as a child. Those precious days seemed so far out of reach now. John drank his whiskey, drowning in drunkenness; he pulled a blanket over him, turned the ignition of the van off and fell swiftly asleep.

Hours later Gwyneth awoke and was met with the freezing cold and the stink of whiskey. She could see the breath escape from her nostrils in the cold air. She tried vainly to slip a hand free from her bonds to no avail. She needed John to wake up and somehow persuade him to free her, even if she had to play along with his Australia plan and bide her time for an opportunity to escape. Her attempts to scream were stifled by the duct tape. After waiting for awhile she lost patience in the cold. She had to alert John that she was awake and prepared to do whatever he wanted. She shuffled across the floor of the van in the blankets he’d wrapped round her. She made it to the back of the driver’s seat where she could see John resting peacefully, the sun shining through the windshield snow onto him. With much effort she sat up and placed her head between the seats. She nudged John’s side with her head a few times. He didn’t budge. “Drunk prick!” she thought. She forced her body through the gap between the seats and shimmied around to face John.

Gwyneth studied her husband’s pale, drained face with tear soaked eyes. His condition was obvious given the perfect inertness of his body and the absence of any foggy vapour seeping out from his mouth and nostrils as you would expect to perceive at this temperature were he breathing. Gwyneth waited in torment for any sign of life that might relieve her fear. There was none. The cause of John’s death was a mystery but Gwyneth speculated that it was due to hypothermia or that he had had a heart attack given his age, his lifestyle and the cruel conditions outside. She wondered even if John had simply died of a broken heart and her stomach churned with guilt. Her torso was lodged between the driver and passenger seats, her wrists tied behind her and at the end of her long legs her ankles were bound together in the back of the van. The handiwork of the man she had once loved. She thrashed about like a fish in a net. She was now powerless to escape her fate. Her cries were muted by the strip of duct tape stuck over her lips. She now had no love left to live for, no hope of anyone finding her in time. She twisted round to rest her head on John’s lap, with no option left but to wait for the cold to take her away.