paranormal anthology ebook

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genre: paranormal anthology

length: 17777 / novella

rating: general

released: February 2007

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Jane Hill

Excerpt

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Please note that some of the books on this site contain material of a sexual nature that is suitable for adults only. By contuining and reading the excerpt below you release us of any responsibility.

REVENGE

I SEE old Mrs Barker coming down the street towards me. She lives next-door, but I don’t know her first name. It’s that kind of street. Nothing like Coronation Street.

I mentally form a polite response to what will no doubt be a grumpy “Good morning, Mrs Francis”. But Mrs Barker looks right through me, her gaze fixed straight ahead as she walks past without a word. A snub, if ever there was one!

You’d almost think she knew what I’d done. But she doesn’t. Nobody knows except me. And Sally Lucas, of course. But she’s in no position to tell.

Could Mrs Barker be snubbing me because she’d heard Mike and me rowing? I was a bit loud. Still, wouldn’t you be furious if you found that for the past eight months your husband had been having it off with a blonde bimbo who’d done some typing for him when his secretary was sick, and that he wanted a divorce?

It wasn’t that I was still in love with Mike — if I ever had been — after twelve years together, and it wasn’t as if we had any children. But I liked being married to a successful businessman; I enjoyed the status it gave me, and the trappings of success. There was no way I was going to let a blonde bimbo from a secretarial agency usurp my position. And there was no way I was going to agree to a divorce.

Not that the violent rows resolved anything. But my meeting with Sally Lucas did. And how!

I’d found her phone number in Mike’s little black book, and I’d rung her at home. Oh, I’d been nice as pie. Could we meet and sort this thing out, I’d asked, implying that I was willing to give up my claim to Mike if he and she were really and truly in love. Yuk! She’d actually fallen for it. Silly little cow. She’d even agreed that it would be best not to say anything to Mike just yet. She knew what Mike was like, I’d said with a merry laugh; he mightn’t be keen on the idea of a “girls-only” talk, but he needn’t know about it, at least not in advance; he had some business in Amsterdam, and he’d be away for a couple of days at least. Sally had wanted to know if she could tell him about our little talk when he came back. “Of course,” I’d said.

And that’s how the bimbo and I came to be having a heart-to-to-heart at that nice little riverside restaurant. I’d suggested we meet for after-dinner drinks. Well, I couldn’t carry out my plan in broad daylight. And I needed the bimbo to be well-primed with alcohol.

No problem there. She was so happy that I was being “reasonable”, she didn’t notice that she was tossing down at least two double vodkas to every one of my glasses of dry white and soda. So she was pretty sozzled when I eventually suggested that we go outside for a smoke. She was dying for a ciggie, she said. Which was pretty amusing, in view of what I’d planned.

The plan went as I’d hoped. The terrace was crowded with people sucking on the cigarettes they weren’t allowed to light up inside. (I even lit up myself, even though I’d given up the habit years ago.) Sally agreed that we didn’t want every Tom, Dick and Harriet to tune into what we were talking about. And she was quite happy with my suggestion that we could best continue our conversation if we took a stroll on the path that ran alongside the river.

In fact, she was giggling when I toppled into the water, dragging her with me. Oh, I knew what I was doing. I could swim and I’d made sure she couldn’t. She didn’t even have a chance to scream before I shoved her head under water. I held it under for a long time before I yelled for help.

Everyone believed my story. People had seen us drinking and noticed that we weren’t too steady on our feet. (Well, Sally certainly wasn’t, and I’m a good actress.) So it wasn’t hard to accept that Sally’s death was a tragic accident and that I was lucky to have survived. Mike might have his suspicions (when he heard the news) — but not for long enough to matter.

They’d taken me to hospital for a check-up after dragging me out of the water. I’d put on an Oscar-winning performance of being distraught over my failure to save Sally — I could have saved her, I sobbed, if she hadn’t struggled so violently – and they gave me a sedative. I lay there contentedly – mission accomplished. Well, the most difficult part of it was. And revenge was indeed sweet.

What brought me out of my pleasantly drowsy state was a sudden, excruciating pain in my chest. Then concerned faces were looming over me. Raised voices and frantic activity. A mask shoved over my face. Blackness.

~ When I woke up, it took me a while to realise where I was...and to recall what had happened. Then it all came back, including the fuss about my chest pain. A false alarm, obviously. Probably only acute indigestion. I felt fit as a flea.

The clock on the wall said 9.30. And it was daylight. That must mean I’d slept soundly for hours — something I hadn’t done for weeks, ever since Mike had moved into the spare bedroom. Well, I deserved a good rest, after all that excitement. I supposed a nurse would be checking on me soon, perhaps bringing me a cup of tea and a biscuit. Then, when they saw how well I was, something more substantial. But nobody came. A good thing I wasn’t hungry. Funny, that!

I had a room to myself. I got out of bed and inspected the en suite. I didn’t need to use the loo; must have been dehydrated from the medication. I scrubbed at my teeth with a forefinger and cold water and contemplated a shower. But there were no towels. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to shower without help? And they’d taken my pillows away. That might be why I’d slept so well; I must try sleeping flat when I got home.

I climbed back into bed and shivered. I was cold in this cotton hospital gown and there was no blanket on my bed, only the regulation hospital sheets. And some fool had switched the air-conditioning to cold. I looked for the buzzer to call a nurse, but couldn’t see one. These young nurses were really slack!

Still, there might be a blanket in that long cupboard. I climbed out of bed again. Good! Blankets and pillows.

I looked again. Better still! They’d dried my clothes already. Why bother getting back into bed? If I dressed myself they’d know I was well enough to be discharged. And I needed to get home before Mike returned.

Still nobody came, so after I was dressed I made my way to the nurses’ station. But the young nurse behind the desk didn’t even look up when I approached. Probably filing her nails or reading some tripe about “true lurv”, I thought sourly. To hell with them; what was to stop me from discharging myself?

I headed for the main doors. Nobody waylaid me; the couple of doctors and the few nurses I passed were too preoccupied to even notice me.

My luck held. There was a bus standing outside the hospital entrance. A number 32 — just what I needed. I’d left my car at home, of course, and I didn’t have the money for a taxi. My handbag hadn’t been in that cupboard, and I wasn’t even sure that the few coins I’d found in the drawer of the bedside locker would cover the bus fare as far as my side of town.

But still my luck held. The driver was leaning on the bonnet, chatting to another fellow, and didn’t see me boarding. The few other passengers didn’t give me a glance as I made my way to a seat right at the back.

~ Anyway, I got here all right. There’ll be a hue-and-cry up at the hospital when they finally realise I’ve absconded. And somebody will be in big trouble. Serve ‘em right for being so slack. Still, I’ll give the hospital a ring and plead temporary amnesia...but not until after I’ve done what I came home to do. It won’t take long.

Actually, I’d planned to do it before I got rid of the blonde bimbo. I knew Mike would take a taxi to the airport, as usual, leaving his Porsche at home. And the idea had been to tamper with the Porsche’s brakes before that meeting at the restaurant.

But then, just before he left, Mike told me he’d arranged to have his car serviced while he was away, and that Joe from the local depot would pick it up and return it. A good thing he had told me: I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death of a decent chap who doesn’t cheat on his wife. Still, the job on the car will work in my favour. Joe will probably get the blame after the Porsche’s brakes fail on that tricky downhill run to Mike’s office block...and my adulterous husband is killed (I hope) in the crash. Nobody will suspect me.

Anyway, Joe had collected the car the same day that Mike left, with the assurance that he’d have it back “soon as poss, love” and leave the keys under the potted palm next to the garage.

That’s the first thing I check when I get home. Sure enough, Joe has returned the Porsche and the keys. Good! I’ll deal with the car as soon as I’ve checked for phone messages.

I retrieve the spare front-door key from its hiding place. Another pot plant. Not a good practice, really, but it’s lucky we keep a spare key handy, considering that mine’s in my bag. I wouldn’t have liked to need to smash a window.

Now I’m in the hallway. The red light on the answer-phone is flashing. I press the “play” button. A message from Joe, telling me what I already know. One from the dry-cleaners, advising that Mike’s overcoat is ready (well, he won’t be needing that!). Somebody trying to sell us double-glazing.

“Come on!” I mutter impatiently. I fast-forward the tape.

“Mr Francis?” the man’s voice says.

Mister Francis? Why should he assume that Mike will answer the call? The outgoing message says the caller has reached Mike and Julia Francis’s number. I shall have to change that later.

I’m about to fast-forward this message as well – it’s probably only another sales pitch – when I catch the name of our local newspaper. What’s this? I wind the tape back a bit.

“Mr Francis, this is Tom Perrin from the Valley Guardian. I’m very sorry to bother you at this distressing time, and I’d like to offer my condolences. But the paper is running a brief item about your wife’s tragic death, and we’d like to check the details with you. And if you could supply us with a photo...”

What? My mind reels. They’ve made a mistake! They mean Sally Lucas’s death!

But the voice drones on: “Forty-year-old Mrs Julia Francis...tragic river accident...courageous attempt to save Miss Lucas...admitted to hospital...fatal heart attack...”

I don’t hear the rest. Fatal! Now I understand why nobody brought me tea and biscuits this morning; why there were no blankets or pillows on my bed; why nobody tried to stop me from leaving the hospital; why the bus driver and passengers ignored me; and why Mrs Barker appeared to snub me. She literally had looked right through me!

I laugh crazily. I probably didn’t need the spare key to open the front door. I can probably walk through walls.

I try it. I can.

THE END