I see old Mrs. Stewart coming down the street towards me. She lives next-door, but I don't know her first name.
I mentally form a polite response to what will no doubt be a grouchy "Good morning, Ms. Johansson."
But Mrs. Stewarts looked right through me, her gaze fixed straight ahead as she walks past me without a word. A cold-shoulder, if there ever was one!
You would almost think she knew what I had done.
But she doesn't.
Nobody knows except me.
And Carissa Lucas, of course. But she's in no position to tell.
Could Mrs. Stewart be ignoring me because she had heard Mike and me getting it off? I was a bit loud. Still, wouldn't you be infuriated if you found that for the past eight months your boyfriend had been having it off with a blonde bimbo who had done some typing for him when his secretary was sick?
It wasn't that I was still in love with Mike, if I ever had been, after five years together. And it wasn't as if we had any children. But I liked being the girlfriend of a hot, successful and rich guy who by the way is GREAT in bed; 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 "let's just go our separate ways, meet new people" crap.
Not that the violent act resolved anything.
But my meeting with Carissa Lucas did. And how? You might be curious.
I had found her phone number in Mikes little black book, and I had rung her phone at home. Oh, I was nice as pie.
"Could we meet and sort this thing out," I had asked, implying that I was willing to give up my claim to Mike if he and she were really and truly in love.
Yuck! She had actually fallen for it. Silly little booger. She had even agreed that it would be best not to say anything to Mike yet. She knew what Mike was like.
I had said with a joyous laugh, "He might not be enthusiastic on the idea of a girls-only talk, but he doesn't need to 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."
Carissa had wanted to know if she could tell him about our little talk when he came back.
"Of course," I had said.
And thats how the bimbo and I came to having a heart-to-to-heart conversation at that nice little riverside restaurant. I had suggested we meet for an after-dinner drink. Well, I couldn't carry out my plan in broad daylight. And I needed the bimbo to be drunk.
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 soda.
So she was pretty drunk 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 had planned.
The plan went as I had hoped. The terrace was crowded with people sucking on the cigarettes they werent allowed to light up inside. Carissa agreed that she didnt 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 werent too steady on our feet. (Well, Carissa certainly wasnt, and Im a good actress.)
So it wasn't hard to accept that Carissa'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 long enough for it to matter.
They had 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 Carissa.
"I could have saved her," I sobbed, "If she hadnt struggled so violently."
And they gave me a tranquilizer. I lay there contentedly, mission accomplished. Well, the most difficult part of it was. And, boy, revenge was sweet indeed.
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 asharp heartburn. I felt fit as a flea.
The clock on the wall said 9.30. And it was daylight. That must mean I had 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 significant. But nobody came. A good thing I wasn't hungry.
Ironic!
I had a room to myself. I got out of bed and inspected the suite. I didn't need to use the toilet; must have been dried out from the medication. I scrubbed at my teeth with a forefinger with cold water and considered 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 get 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 released. 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 rubbish about true love, I thought sourly. To hell with them; what was to stop me from releasing myself?
I headed for the main doors. Nobody approached 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 had 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 drawer 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 even glance at me as I made my way to a seat right at the back.
Anyway, I got here all right.
There'll be an uproar up at the hospital when they finally realise I've escaped. And somebody will be in big trouble.
Serve them right for being so slack. Still, I'll give the hospital a ring and plead temporary memory loss...but not until after I've done what I came home to do. It wont take long.
Actually, I had 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 Porsches 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 favor. Joe will probably get the blame after the Porsches brakes fail on that tricky downhill run to Mike's office block...and my two-timing 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 and leave the keys under the potted palm next to the garage.
That's the first thing I checked when I get home. Sure enough, Joe had returned the Porsche and the keys. Good! I'll deal with the car as soon as I've checked for phone messages.
I retrieved the spare front-door key from its hiding place. Another pot plant. Not a good practice, really, but its lucky we keep a spare key handy, considering that mines was in my bag. I wouldn't have liked to smash a window.
Now I'm in the hallway. The red light on the phone began flashing. I press the play button.
A message from Joe, telling me what I already know. One from the dry-cleaners, advising that Mikes overcoat is ready (well, he won't be needing that!). And somebody was trying to sell us double-glazing.
Come on! I mutter impatiently. I fast-forward the tape.
"Mr. Francis?" the man voice says.
Mister Francis? Why should he assume that Mike will answer the call? The outgoing message says the caller has reached Mike Francis and Naomi Johansson's number. I shall have to change that later.
I'm about to fast-forward this message as well, its probably only another sales pitch
But then, I caught the name of our local newspaper.
Whats this?
I wind the tape back a bit.
"Mr. Francis, this is Tom Perrin from the River 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 girlfriend's tragic death, and we would like to check the details with you. And if you could supply us with a photo..."
What?
My mind lurched. They have made a mistake! They mean Carissa Lucas's death!
But the voice droned on: Twenty two-year-old Ms. Naomi Johansson...tragic river accident...courageous attempt to save Miss Lucas...admitted to hospital...fatal heart attack...
I didn'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. Stewarts appeared to ignore 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. And I can!
THE END
LOL! Click Naomi--->
Ha!
My first one shot! I had a great time writing it and what inspired me was a funny movie I was watching on Sci-Fi, I think it's called dead like me.
Hope you liked it! Rate please!
Also, please send me feedback. Did you like it...did you not?
Byeeeees!
More One Shots on the way!!!
