Writing for Fun
March 2018
Murder - Anne Wilson
The body by his side swayed unsteadily, nervously anticipating what was about to happen and he steadied it, whispering words of reassurance as he slowly pulled it back until the water covered it.
He was there again. In the deep, dark recesses of his mind from which there was no escape. The slurping of the water and the grip exerted as he held the body firmly in his grasp mingled in his mind with a scream from long ago which had followed the gradual crescendo of footsteps returning to the bathroom. The sweat was seeping through him until he could smell it faintly in the air – although he doubted it was perceptible to others.
Sometimes he could block things out and pleasant childhood images would come to mind, unfettered by tragedy.
‘Play ball with me Dad. I bet I can catch your throw more times than you can mine without dropping it.’
‘Mum, let me put a spoon round the side of the bowl and lick it before you put the cake mixture in the oven. Promise it won’t spoil my meal.’
‘Mum, I told Grandpa and Grandma I was top of my class this term and look what they bought me.’
Then Sammy arrived.
For some months before, his mother had seemed listless and his father and grandparents preoccupied. Sometimes they would touch her arm in reassurance and occasionally his father would undertake duties previously the province of his mother, so she could rest. Hovering by doors left ajar he would hear his grandmother warning her to be careful and not do too much because of her age. His family was furtive with him and overly solicitous with her and despite their occasional reassurances that he wasn’t to worry, he did. An illogical superstition prevented him from probing more deeply in case it precipitated a bad outcome and he prayed to a God with whom he was then only barely acquainted that she would not die.
One night she was taken to hospital by his father and he thought he would never see her again, but she returned, looking more like her former self and carrying what appeared to be a bundle – his father’s arm around her shoulder protectively. He was profoundly relieved but, as he would learn in later life, relief is a short-lived emotion for many and comes at a price.
‘We want to introduce you to someone,’ said his father, beckoning him over and beaming radiantly. ‘This is Sammy.’
The person inside the bundle was ugly and prune-faced with a blotchy complexion and he didn’t like the look of him one bit. He fled in tears when he learned that Sammy would be living with them permanently and no amount of cajoling could persuade him to leave his bedroom that evening.
The games of ball in the back garden had continued but he had noticed that his father was anxious for them to finish – even deliberately missing easy catches in order to achieve that end and focus his attention on Sammy. His mother no longer baked, as she claimed she no longer had time now that Sammy had arrived and the interaction of being with her in the kitchen had therefore ceased. His grandparents still visited every weekend but seemed vaguely distracted when he spoke or told them of his achievements – the direction of their eyes wandering every now and again to the squalling individual who now dominated his home and their conversation becoming animated when he was scooped up in the arms of one or the other.
His friends at school had laughed at him when he had told them about the new arrival. They jibed at him that they had known all along that his mother was expecting a baby and teased him over his woeful ignorance of the female form so that he felt not only embarrassed at his own foolishness but angry that his parents had not explained the situation to him – however uncertain they might have been of the outcome.
His mother loved to bath Sammy and it seemed to him that she revelled in the intimacy it brought between them. Occasionally he would watch from the bathroom door, envy overflowing within him and his face flushed with anger. He remembered the night the doorbell rang and the gentle lapping of the water as it beat against the bath. Normally his mother would have never left Sammy alone but she saw him standing there and beckoned him in. She would only be a moment she told him and asked him to be grown-up and keep an eye on Sammy until she came back. She bent down and kissed the baby on the top of his head before she left and he felt his anger intensify.
It was over with so quickly – much more so than he had expected. The little arms flailed as he held the head under the water – the mouth emitting bubbles, which seemed oddly comic to him – but there was no real struggle; the baby was too small and he was too strong. He heard the footsteps on the stairs – ever increasing in their proximity – and there were a few moments before she came back into the bathroom when he felt his heart beating as if it would burst. Never since had he ever seen anyone clasp their hand over their mouth in shock and then release it in order to scream in anguish and the image and sound of his mother doing so would forever live with him.
No blame was attached to him and it was regarded as an unfortunate accident beyond anyone’s control. His mother knew, though. He was sure of that by the way she was never affectionate with him again and could never meet his eyes. It was an unspoken secret between them, which he was sure she kept from his father and his grandparents and which she took to her grave.
He released the body from his grasp and heard the sound of clapping echoing in the background – a symbol of the present day and his vocation. Conducting baptisms was the one aspect of his job he loathed because of the resonating memory it brought with it. The atonement he had sought in trying to do good for others was something he knew could never truly be achieved. He would sleep badly that night.