Gerald and Cynthia stare at each other across the bare living room. Both are seated on dining room chairs pre-dating the Scandinavian conquest of British showrooms: dark split-cane curved into tense arcs ready to spring into injurious action at the loosening of a bracket. They were fine once, but now serve as little more than metaphors for the relationship playing out in this stark, damp room at the rear of number twelve Star Street.
Gerald broke the silence. “I didn’t think it would end this way. You and me, sitting here, hating each other. It’s been thirty-three years, for God’s sakes.”
“You should have thought of that before now. Using my money and selling our furniture to finance your gambling habit was the last straw.” Cynthia looked at him with empty eyes.
“I was doing it for you,” he said, his voice low. “I wanted a better life for you.”
“A better life?” She looked around the room. “A better life is one where we have security and stuff like furniture.”
Gerald bowed his head. “Look, I admit I got it wrong. But I’ve never been able to crack the big time like I thought I would. And when I found your savings behind that panel in the wardrobe, I thought I could multiply it, but things got out of hand and I …”
“And you blew the lot,” Cynthia replied, “plus some.”
Gerald tried to raise his hand, but the shackles holding him to the chair prevented all but the smallest movements.
“You never even thought about where the money came from,” Cynthia hissed. “It was just there, and you couldn’t resist, could you?”
Lifting the Taser lying on the floor in front of her, she said, “Didn’t expect this though, did you?”
“Cyn,” he whispered, “what are you saying?”
“Have I ever told you most serial killers are Pisces?” Cynthia laughed. “It’s why I chose this house. You never got it, did you?”
Gerald whimpered.
“I kept this family together. I was dedicated to us, not just me, but US. I put the kids through university. I paid the mortgage. I’m the one who put food on the table. That is commitment,” she stood, weighing the taser in her hand, “while you buggered about with your mad schemes. Where did you think the money came from? The tooth fairy?”
She raised the gun, pointing it at Gerald.
“Don’t Cyn, that thing hurts.”
“I’ve done far worse, Gerald. Far, far worse.”
Shooting him with the Taser came easily to her – she’s done it many times before. He jerks like a string puppet, and slumps. Applying a neck tourniquet, she tightens it until he stops breathing.
Cynthia picked up her phone and punched in a number.
“Toni, it’s done. Bring the van.”
“And Phil?” A voice asks from the other end of the line.
“We can talk about him on the way to the pig farm,” she replied. “Oh, and Toni …”
“Yes?”
“Wear your strappy top, darling.”
