In Bloom. C.J. Skuse

people are experts at hiding what they are,’ says Géricault as they are leaving. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ She nods and holds my stare.

      It’s clear from this meeting that Craig’s in the frame. I’m a key witness at best; the pregnant, scared girlfriend of a man who was, by day, a mild-mannered builder – by night a vicious, apex predator. They’d got the bastard.

      *Gordon Ramsay clap* DONE.

      *

      So, I guess now you want to know about the old choppy-choppy? Well, it was the messiest, most nauseating thing I’ve ever done. God, when I think how easy it was for murderers in the olden days. All you had to do was lace someone’s tobacco with arsenic or push them in the Thames. They rarely caught people like me back then – sudden death was usually down to ‘The Pox’. Now you’ve got to do all this dismembering and fingerprint-hiding shit.

      First I had to make a list for Homebase –

       • rubber gloves (1 box)

       • plastic sheeting and/or cling film (lots)

       • shovel (1)

       • bleach (2 bottles, possibly 3)

       • duct tape (3 rolls)

       • cleaning sponges (several)

       • electric power saw and/or bow saw (1 of each).

      How did I know what to get? My dad was a vigilante – kids pick these things up.

      Then I scrubbed out rubber gloves, bleach and sponges from the Homebase list and decided to get them in Lidl so it wouldn’t look like I was doing a supermarket sweep for dismembering tools. I also added Penguins, Kettle Chips, oil and elderflower pressé. Lies sandwiched between truths.

      Annoyingly, Craig’s power saw – a bloody expensive one he’d bought with his Screwfix vouchers – was still in his van which is, as I write, being impounded by police in Amsterdam. I therefore had to buy a new one.

      The guy I pounced upon in the masonry paint aisle at Homebase – Ranjit – was only too happy to help. I played my Dumbass Girly Girl role to the hilt, saying the saw was Hubby’s birthday gift and that he ‘wanted to get started on our decking pronto’. Ranjit had just the tool – a power saw. I chose the Makita FG6500S with dust guard and free goggles for two reasons:

       1) it cut through wood like butter and

       2) it was the quietest.

      I bought my bits and pieces, got it all back to Whittaker’s flat and set everything up in her bathroom. It took ages. And then doubt crept in. What if someone heard the saw? What if Jonathan and his folks returned early from the zoo? What if one of Whittaker’s friends popped by just as I’m up to my elbows in Australian long pig? It was getting on for four o’clock. I needed to see what the situation was outside my own private abattoir.

      I dressed in my most girly outfit, brushed my hair so it went all Doris Day and grabbed the spare set of Craig’s keys. Up and down the hallway I went like the fucking Avon lady, knocking on doors asking if they’d been dropped in the lift. Only three families were in on Whittaker’s floor – the gays with the cats, the couple in wheelchairs and Leafblower Ron and Shirley who were watching TV and eating haddock and mash judging by the smell.

      It wasn’t ideal but I had to chance it. Saw and be damned.

      You can do it, Mummy. I believe in you.

      When I started, I kept seeing his face flash across my mind. His eyes. His smile. The moment he told me he loved me.

      I had to keep telling myself ‘It’s only a dead pig. The pig was a bad, bad pig’ and threw a tea towel over its face when it was staring. ‘I don’t like being blackmailed by a lanky dead Australian pig.’

      But all the while a little voice was telling me differently.

      That’s not a pig though, Mummy. That’s my daddy.

      I vomited until it was stringy water. I don’t know if it was pregnancy sickness kicking in or the pervading stink of bleach or the fact that on some level I’d appalled myself. The thigh bones were the worst – I used a hammer to drive the knife down deeper to break into them. I used the saw as sparingly as possible, French-trimming the bones before smashing down through them. I ended up with six pieces. Wrapping them took longer than cutting them.

      The whole process was not to be repeated. By that evening each section was tightly wrapped in cling film – head, torso, arms, right thigh, left thigh and lower legs. I packaged them in two sports bags and took it all down to my car with my other stuff – clothes and Sylvanians. Nothing else mattered.

      And it wasn’t just the body parts I had to dispose of either. I also had:

       • the plastic sheeting from the bathroom

       • the shower curtain

       • all my bed linen

       • all AJ’s possessions – including his rucksack, passport and phone

      I’d have to burn as much of it as I could. Somehow. Somewhere.

      I didn’t allow myself to cry until I was in the car and half way up the motorway towards the coast. The rain lashed against the windows. I half-wished it would skid off the road as I drove. I could barely see through my tears or the windscreen at one point.

      It was getting on for midnight by the time I turned up on Jim and Elaine’s doorstep in Monks Bay. I was sobbing, soaked and spent of energy. I fell into Jim’s cashmere arms, ready for him to take care of me. Ready for Elaine to wash my face and make me hot chocolate and dress me in warm, pyjamas and tuck me into their spare room on the second floor and tell me everything was going to be all right.

      Ready for someone else to take the reins.

Monday, 25th June – 7 weeks, 1 day

       1. People in washing powder adverts who are surprised when the washing powder gets the clothes clean, i.e. does its fucking job.

       2. The first man who got the first woman pregnant. And the first woman who thought that was a good idea.

       3. People who buy fake flowers.

       4. People who make fake flowers.

       5. Tourists in open-toe sandals – now that it’s summer there are suddenly yellowing, gnarly trotters everywhere. Now I know how the Nazis felt when the Ark of the Covenant opened.

       6. Johnny Depp.

      For just a moment the other day, I thought I was running out of items for my Kill Lists. But then lo, a new morning breaks and with it arrives a whole new bunch of thorns in my raw little side.

      I gave Jim the Gazette’s switchboard number and left him to explain why I was off sick. I can take as long as I need. Bet they’re loving this. Nothing as newsworthy as this has ever happened in that town. I can see Linus Sixgill now, creaming his genius over his by-line:

       PRIORY GARDENS SURVIVOR IN SEX SLAYER SHOCK SHE USED TO MAKE OUR COFFEE!

      or

       GAZETTE GIRL’S BOYFRIEND IS GAY SEX SLAYER! WE ALWAYS THOUGHT HER COFFEE TASTED FUNNY!

      or perhaps

       GAZETTE JUNIOR LIVES WITH SICKO SEX FIEND: Did she make his coffee too?

      I’ve felt sick all day. And thirsty. And dizzy, like I’ve been stuck in a revolving door for a decade. I’m also shivery, which Elaine says is ‘either a chill or pneumonia’. She is making me endless cups of tea and checking my temperature on the hour.

      Either