Hollow

8 / Guilt, Medium Rare

Amanda was quiet for most of that morning. I let her be, knowing this was her way. She was fairly numbed to blood and death, dealing with it every day, and a body was just that. As she cut it open, weighed the brains and lungs, tried to understand angles of entry or whether the blade was serrated or smooth, the person before her was no longer a person. They were a husk. A courier for organs in a vehicle that had, fatally, broken down. Still, there was a part of her that would always be affected. That would mourn for the deceased, particularly if they were young.

Young.

No.

I couldn't.

But...? Would it...?

Hence, she cried in my arms before we slept. Hence she preferred Piers Morgan to the news. I wanted to ask. I wanted to find out what she had found out, and she would often tell me, but I had to allow her time. She had to come to me.

We made small talk, and it was indeed small – in stature and subject. We spoke about the movie. About my flat tyre. About the bad hair day we were both having. It was all in snippets. Snatches of words that were an oasis in the dessert of the day. Something really had got to her. I tried to think what it might be, but couldn't. Yes, my victims were young, but she had witnessed this many times before. She was a little down after it but that was quickly replaced by her usual sharp wit and sharper smile, one that could cut through my darkest moods.

This time, there was none of that. Not until much later, anyway. Before she settled back into being my Amanda, she made a pretence of watching the TV, took overlong getting dressed, let her tea go cold, not want it to be nuked, and barely kissed me when she left for work.

Had I left some clue? Evidence of my misdeeds? Did she know it was I who had killed them and was battling with herself as to whether she should turn me in or not?

The fear of discovery burned through me like a wildfire using my bones as tinder, but it was, at the most, a flash fire. I hadn't, I was sure. No bloody foot or finger prints. No scrap of hair or saliva. I had not exactly been careful, but I had also not been clumsy. Savinda was chance. Opportunity. I had neither intent nor weapon, other than my own hands. For Sara, yes, I'd taken the knife out. I'd intending on killing someone. I hadn't, however, done so haphazardly.

So, no. Amanda did not know it was me. She had no idea and it must have been the fact that two young women had been killed, one by a train and one by a killer. Two lives taken so closely would have shaken the strongest resolve, I was sure.

I couldn't help but smile. It wasn't what I'd intended and certainly wasn't what I needed, but I had caused the tears from my beloved wife. I had, though it thrilled me to a much lesser degree, ruined the lives of those families. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Not that I wanted to hurt Amanda. I would never intentionally do anything to upset her. I loved her. But the fact that someone, be it anyone, was so affected gave me a shiver of excitement.

I would make it up to my wife, though. I'd take her out for the date night we missed. Somewhere nice. Somewhere she wouldn't expect.

And, I'd call her mother to organise it, rather than leave it up to her.

I wasn't doing this out of guilt. No. I was doing it because she'd been upset and I'd been the cause. It wasn't guilt so much as it was a sort of reparation. Making up for spilling wine on the carpet or burning her breakfast toast.

I should, also, not be as eager for the next one. It wasn't a race, it was an experiment. A journey of completion, to be wholly me so I could love Amanda and our children without reservation.

That sounded like I was doing it for them. Was I really so self righteous? No! I was doing this for me. Though I didn't feel selfish, I could recognise the taint. I was missing something and, once I had found it, life could continue as it was meant to be. But, I definitely needed to slow down. Take a break. Plan things rather than just diving in. I needed to make sure the deaths were not connected and killing someone every night until I 'got it right' was not a good idea. I should take a step back and turn my attentions to my family. Amanda, clearly, was upset. I'd get her some flowers, white roses, and a bottle of the wine she liked. It was cheap, less than a fiver, and she mixed it with lemonade (I'd best top up our supply of that, too), but she enjoyed it – especially with some frozen fruit, such as raspberries and grapes, thrown in.

I preferred a Jack Daniels and Coke. She'd tell me I was lubricating my inner man, but one glass of that would last me for two of hers. So I'd tell her that she was drowning her outer woman.

I rang Rose without pausing to grit my teeth or steel my nerves. There was no wife to see me being ever so brave, but the gesture felt good nonetheless. It was as if I was standing up to her permanent displeasure and, though I did it alone, I felt as if it was a triumph.

It rang twice and diverted straight through to her answer phone. She'd rejected my call, obviously. Otherwise it would either have rung for longer or jumped straight to the answering service, without passing ringing or collecting £200. I hung up and dialled again. This time, it did divert immediately.

Gotta love the mother in law.

Fair enough. I wasn't going to play her game and make her feel as if I needed her. I'd do things differently. If I couldn't take my wife out, I'd add a couple of steaks, some peppercorn sauce, asparagus and kale to the list. After I'd collected the children from school, I'd feed them their favourite mac'n'cheese, wear them out with some games and get them to bed. A few candles, of which we had plenty dotted around the living and dining rooms, and a playlist on the Echo. The scene, and mood, would be set and, hopefully, it would help take Amanda's mind off her case and cheer her up a little.

Amanda usually did the shopping. I paid the utility bills and she would pay for food, toiletries, meals when we went out and that sort of thing. I wouldn't say I hated walking around supermarkets, but I had an intense dislike for it. I'd just get used to the layout and they'd alter it, forcing people to wander around aimlessly, picking up things they didn't want just because they passed it in search of what they actually went in there for. Other trolleys would be just sticking out into the aisles by inconsiderate twits who had forgotten that other shoppers existed, and might want to pass, while they spent twenty minutes looking for the right sauce mix before deciding they'd have take-out instead.

I would brave it, however. Knowing how much I was not a fan, Amanda would appreciate it all the more and would feel, in turn, more loved.

The car park was rammed. Drivers drove slower than they needed to, or stopped completely, to get the closest possible space to the entrance. It was dry. It wasn't too cold. Cool at worst. I didn't see an issue with taking a space wherever it was. I did my best to ignore the man getting out of their car that they'd happily left in a disabled space. There was nothing wrong with them. I wouldn't say they were friends, but I knew of them. He played football on weekends with Amanda's cousin and I she ran a yoga class at one of the local health clubs. They had no children, preferring to be able to drop everything and go for city breaks or exotic sun holidays in places I'd never heard of. I deliberately parked further away to, in some completely insignificant way, make up for his brutish ignorance and mentally growled at the car as I passed.

Amanda would have been proud. Once upon a time I would have taken my key and carved a disabled sign into the bonnet of the car. Once upon a time, I had some minor anger issues, aimed always at those I saw as doing some wrong. I could be prone to overreact. That was years ago, though, and now I would grumble and growl and walk on by.

Usually.