Writing for Fun
October 2018
The Experiment - Anne Wilson
I’ve never liked Hugh very much. I find him pedantic, overbearing and patronising, but he is my brother-in-law and my wife dotes on him.
Theirs is a close relationship. Diana’s birth was a ‘surprise addition’ to her family and at least a decade separates her from Hugh, but rather than her arrival incurring feelings of resentment on Hugh’s part as a much-cherished only child, he has always been protective of her from birth; so that she had always, in effect, had three parents – mother, father and Hugh, hovering like a ministering angel. The deaths of both parents has only resulted in them becoming even closer and the closeness was now spilling over from being overly cloying to being almost intolerable and, yes, I feel almost ashamed for thinking it – unnatural. Not that I’m suggesting anything other than a romantic rather than physical relationship.
My wife never gazes at me in quite the same way as she does Hugh. Of that I’m certain. Basking in her brother’s adoration, she hangs on to his every word – each mundane sentence turning into a pearl of wisdom; each solicitous enquiry concerning her emotional and physical well-being tinged with too much concern on his part and worst of all, each touch of his arm on hers taking on the form of what seems suspiciously to me like an erotic gesture.
I have been pondering the relationship between them deeply. Is their devotion to each other borne out of circumstances? Hugh has never married and Diana has never been able to have children. Has this had the effect of binding the two of them inextricably? On the other hand, has Hugh’s willingness to remain an eternal bachelor as he approached fifty, a reluctance to embark upon an emotional involvement outside his relationship with his sister? The more I weigh it up, the heavier I come down on the side of the latter. On Diana’s part, I have no doubts about the veracity of her being unable to have children, but we have never discussed adoption or having treatment and she there seems to me to have no sense of something lacking in her life as a consequence. Is she content with the status quo because she has never had any need of anyone other than Hugh?
It’s nagged at me until it has become an obsession. Hugh’s visits to our house have always been regular, but when my mother in law and father in law were still alive Hugh’s attitude towards his own sister had at least been tempered by their presence. Now, it is just Hugh and Diana and I feel part of an eternal triangle: a husband whose rival is his wife’s own sibling. Diana needs to be tested. But how?
Hugh is a man who likes to make an entrance. His frequent visits to our house for dinner are usually heralded by a short, sharp ring on the door bell, followed by a flourish as he wends his way across our threshold, brandishing a bottle of wine to adorn our well-stocked cellar (only a good vintage, of course as we are all connoisseurs). He then ostentatiously settles into one of our easy chairs as he makes a remark about the weather in that way of speaking he has that sounds as if he’s saying something of great importance. He is always punctual, too: another of his many virtues in my wife’s devoted eyes. You can set your watch by him. Tonight, though, there is no ring of the doorbell at the appointed time. No braying voice fills the room and no bottle of wine looks as if will be emptied into our respective glasses. Hugh is conspicuous by his absence. Diana looks at her watch. She seems a bit edgy. I am edgy too, but for a different reason. I wonder if she’s noticed? Ten minutes pass and then another five. ‘It’s not like him,’ she says, voice sounding a little fraught. ‘Perhaps he’s been held up. I’ll try his land-line.’ When she gets no response she tries his mobile.
No-one answers. I know they won’t because I switched it off myself.
She tries it again after a further five minutes.
‘I’m worried about him. Suppose something’s happened to him.’ Her voice is tremulous.
After half an hour her upper lip is quivering and I try my best to be reassuring. I even manage to convince myself.
An hour goes by and she is wringing her hands, pacing the room anxiously.
‘I think I ought to ring the police,’ she says.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say as kindly and firmly as possible. ‘Hugh’s a grown man. We can’t report him missing because he’s an hour late for dinner.’
‘I don’t care,’ she says. ‘If he was going to be late he would have let us know. You can always rely on Hugh.’
Good manners prevent me from responding with a sarcastic remark.
She rings Hugh’s colleagues and his sparse number of friends but they are unable to assist. Between times there are umpteen calls to his mobile and a couple to his landline. There are no other avenues for her to explore and she continues to pace the room, wringing her hands. Tears fill her eyes. It is now nearly midnight. She is wretched. I can see she is at breaking point and I am nervous myself, but for a different reason.
‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly valid explanation,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to bed. I’m sure we’ll hear from him in the morning. If not, we can notify the police that he’s missing.’
She faces me; eyes blazing.
'Are you quite mad?’ she says in a shrill voice. ‘He would never just not turn up without getting in touch.
'Hugh-is-missing-and-I-don’t-know-where-he-is.’ She spaces the words out slowly as if to emphasise the significance of the situation to a dull-minded, uncomprehending listener.
By now I have a sinking feeling. I have done something I shouldn’t and think I am going to hear something that, in my heart of hearts I don’t want to know.’
‘I couldn’t bear it if anything has happened to him’ she says hysterically. ‘Hugh is my life. I couldn’t go on without him.’ ‘You always have me,’ I say, the words sticking in my throat.
She shrugs and the gesture, peculiar as it is in the circumstances, takes on enormous significance. I know now what she feels about Hugh and what she feels about me. I can feel Hugh’s mobile phone in my coat pocket and, despite its lightness, it weighs me down.
I know exactly where Hugh is. He is in the wine cellar where I left him. He did not arrive tonight at the time Diana expected him because he arrived hours before, unexpectedly when she was out. He had bought her a birthday present he wanted to show me. It was very expensive. Much more expensive than anything I could afford. The sort of a present a lover gives and not a brother. I lured him to the cellar and pushed him down the steps and he cracked his head as he tumbled on the marble floor. He was not breathing when I checked. I took his mobile, moved him out of sight and locked the cellar door. The opportunity of conducting an experiment had presented itself and I just had to grasp it. It’s now evident from Diana’s reaction that she cares more for her brother than her own husband. I know that now and have made my choice. I would have been willing to face punishment for what I have done if I thought Diana had a shred of feeling for me but I am not going to confess. He can rot down there for all I care. No-one goes into the cellar except me and I don’t think they’ll ever find him. Diana must live with never knowing: just as I have.
Well, what would you have done?