The Interviews

I

-It started as a service.
He was smiling as he spoke. The smile wasn't forced, held naturally there on that pleasant face. He reminded me of the rather modern vicar of our lovable suburb, a round face, all cheeks and swollen lips, pushing out at you, constantly trying to catch your attention. The thought of the vicar jarred as I focused on the man in front of me. He stuttered.
-Well. That's not exactly true. There was my wife.
He looked down at his knee below the small desk that ran between us. It was a flimsy looking barrier considering everything. Hadn't this man killed women, a number of women?
I had felt fine up to this moment. It was his looking down that forced my attention on to the desk. I looked away to the door. There stood the prison officer, silent, wearing an 'on duty' look, nothing to hold his interest or worry him.
-That was most unpleasant. Her death was a kindness, though. I truly believe that. I do.
He was trying to get full eye contact. Harry Holmes, they'd called him 'Helpless' at school, now in his forties and a killer of women. He'd had a strangled look in all the photos I'd seen, the skin of his face stretched tight, revealing the bone structure beneath. He had looked fragile and somehow pleading. You might have sat opposite him on a train, he'd have worn a rather threadbare suit of average quality, keeping himself to himself. He'd have pulled out a newspaper, probably the Guardian, and hidden behind it. He had that hopeless, shabby look,
The man in front of me seemed to have blossomed, fattened, confidence oozed from his every pore. His full head of grey hair carefully coifered, not just plastered to his head as in the photos. I felt off balance. I had to speak.
-Tell me about her. Your wife.
-You. Tell you. You could never understand. You are a woman.
-Some subspecies, you mean?
He smiled kindly.
-No. No. It's just...
I was losing my patience, he must have seen that.
-Look. I have nothing against women. I have never killed a woman just because she was a woman. That's completely misunderstanding my motives. I told you I was providing a service.
Did he have something to say, something that lay behind the shit he was feeding me? I doubted it just then. A service!
-Caving a woman's head in is a service?
The prison officer looked over at me. I had raised my voice.
-I've already admitted that was unpleasant. The case of my wife...it just all happened. I had no control. Not then.
He held his hands in front of him, resting them on the edge of the desk. I watched as he stared down at the trembling of the index and middle finger of his right hand. He caught me looking at him, reached up with the hand, pressing it to his lips which he pushed together, sucking hard, suddenly pulling the hand away to look at me.
-I killed wives, not women. Understand me. Wives.
-Ah. This is the subspecies you chose!
I let out a shriek with that, I suspect.
-I said that you'd never be able to understand. What do you want from me?
There was the man of the photograghs in front of me for a moment, withered, pleading, but only a moment, then gone. Now he held his head tilted slightly backwards, composing his features with quiet dignity. Who the hell are you, I thought. You can't hide what you've done so easily. It's got to show. That's what I was there for. I was hardly going to tell him.

*

There she sits, beautiful as hell, breathing a little fast, and liking my smiles. I smile good at her. She has to like me. They all have to like me. I see to that. I know what she's here for. She's after my blood. Payment. I see her. I know her kind. Screw Jena Jones. I'm just smiling by.
I'm idling in with it. Not giving much away. Like I just look down so terribly ashamed when I talk of my wife. Smashed her fucking head right in. Bitch. She deserved it. Screw her into the ground. Round and round and round.
This blond bitch reporter, I'll give her some. She thinks she's immune. Her and her readers. In for a joy ride. I'll give them their money's worth. If I can't kill her, I'll maim her. Her sweet little face will shrivel. Her neat, elegant body will dry up and die. I shall be inside her. Right there inside her.
And she'll never even see me.

*

-She was always talking. I liked that at first. I respected her because she had views, reasoned views, on things I'd never considered. Perhaps it was all my own fault, sometimes I think so. I felt low, lower than her, like she was better than me and I had to let some things go because of that. She was earning more than me, see, and that meant she had rights. Money brings rights. That's not what I thought. Consciously. It was just there.

I was staring at his hair. Where did he get such a cut? Were prison barbers always so professional? They were really taking care of this guy. It was just perfect, not a hair out of place. He liked it, too. You could see from the way he moved under it. There was vanity.
That was a line I could take: man, his pathetic, weak vanity broken by woman, goes beserk. There was more here, though, and I had to dig. He was just coasting along, bullshitting me with this wife guff.
-You killed her because she made you feel little. Because she was better, more intelligent, earnt more....
-Listen. Just listen. Or else I'll tell it someone else.
-Sorry. I'm sure.
He leaned toward me. He didn't look friendly.
-You are very pretty. You know that? Sure, you do. I chose you. Jena Jones. I've known you for so long, longer than I can remember. Did you know that?
Sure. I knew that. But I wasn't telling him just yet, that could wait. We actually went to the same school. I was shaking my head. I didn't remember him. I had checked. It was true. Same school, same time. Just he was two years ahead and I don't remember him at all. Wish I did. It was a big school. He had been one missed face in the crowd.
-Yeh. I watched you those days. My last year at school, you looked pretty much as you do now. Nice. Very nice.
Was I supposed to thank him? I smiled a dry, nasty sneer at him.
-Tell me more of the wife thing.
-Wife thing?
-Yeh. Your thing with wives.
He sucked at his lips again, back of his hand wiped across them, his eyes hardened, he was preparing to push through.
-It's something subtle. You have got to listen well. She was nice enough the first years. We were still doing it regular those years. The sex stuff. It was all right between us. Nothing exceptional, nothing very adventurous, just physically enveloping touch.
He looked proud of himself at that. I didn't react, then quickly nodded to get him going again.
-It sealed our relationship. It was when that slowed down and we found ourselves alone together. That is sad. Two people together not making any kind of contact. Perhaps children would have changed that but we decided against bringing more victims into the world. Lucky that. Right?
I smiled like he had made a prefectly normal, little joke.
-She slowly lost respect for me. She'd come home and start slamming doors, want to know why I hadn't put the rubbish out or something equally dull. Tell me to do it. Pronto. Like straight away. Then she'd shove off to the bedroom to change. I'd hear her in there and just sit reading the paper. Fuck her and her orders. Then she'd be back and tell me again. Take the fucking rubbish out! Take it out! Take it out! It smells! And then she'd slam a few more doors. I wouldn't move for a while, just watch her doing all that. Finally I'd get up and slowly get the rubbish and make for the front door. Never could resist a parting shot. Something like: it's your sodding rubbish, too. But I took the rubbish, yeh, well, you see, she cooked.
He must have read my thoughts because he stopped and laughed.
-Sounds like your average married couple? Nothing so terrible. Yeh. Just a lazy guy and a tired wife? Sure. That's how I figured it then and after, too. That's why I went on.
He was looking at me. Eyeing me up. I could feel his gaze move down as far as the desk allowed, saw him imagining, his eyes resting on the desk as though seeing through to my legs. He looked up and met my cold stare, a smile flickered upon his pursed lips. He was happy. I remembered how many years the judge had given him. How long he'd remain in his chicken run. He was still talking.
-You don't want to hear about the months, the years that that went on. You don't want to hear how she penned me in. Slowly built a wall round me. But that's what did it. I was dumb. I let her hold the purse strings. See to all the bills, tax stuff. I was warned. A close friend, almost a father, he said never to let a wife control the money. It was just one element. Get that? But it mattered, bloody hell. What can you do, you got no fucking money in your pocket? But, like I said, you don't want to hear this. You want the moment. Right?!
He was leering at me. I just kept quiet and cool. Let him speak. Let him get on with it. I'd get round to my questions when I was ready.
He was sucking again.
-It was just a normal day. I was in the kitchen. She was there cooking. It was something about fish. I don't remember exactly. I felt heavy. My head heavy and raw. She said something. It wasn't important, just one more barbed sentence thrown into the void. I snapped. Stood, went up to her and yelled, felt great. I just yelled words into her face. Pushed right into her. My nose almost touching hers. She was open mouthed. I hadn't finished. I yelled some more. She put up a hand to push me away. I just stood my ground. She lost her balance. I couldn't have stopped her fall. It was like slow motion. She toppled over, going down in stages. Banged against the cooker, the wall, landed on her arse. I moved over, leant down to offer her a hand, help her up. She hit me on the jaw. That did it. I had something in my hand, it came down on her head, came down hard. There was a crack. I could feel the jarring, the giving, through my hand. I looked at the rolling pin. Her. The blood.
He looked at me as he spoke. The thin smile always there in his mouth.
-Getting off on this, I hope. You all do. Anyway, she was dead. You know the rest. How I got away with it all those years. It was just luck. I couldn't believe it myself. Took it as a message. I'll remind you. Okay. Took her in the car, after I'd tidied her up, for a nice little drive. Then I put her in the driving seat, let her go, car rolling down this hill, not too far from where you used to live actually, and she hit a tree straight on, flew through the air, hit her dear sweet head, full on, just where I'd hit her. I didn't actually know that, not till later. You can imagine the days I spent sweating over it. The police didn't suspect anything. No reason for that. But I knew. At the inquest the judge decided it was an accident, careless driving. Yeh. I was lucky.
He looked over his shoulder, back at me.
-Think our times up, angel. Time to return to the cage.
-They treating you well?
-Like a king. Like a king.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do you want to read more of this short novel? Wives is a finished work and I'll post the next installment soon - all you have to do is send an email to john44r@yahoo.com
When I have received just 25 emails, I will post the second installment. That's not a lot to ask: simply send me an email and let me know how much you hate this story.