I killed my mother-in-law last month. Obviously, David doesn’t know I was responsible for his mother’s death. He thinks it was just an accident. Which is infuriating, because I was finally going to prove to him what a cow she was. But now I have to listen to him crying over “Poor Mummy,” and reminiscing about how perfect she was.
***
I liked David. He was a man with neither imagination nor vices. He was nothing like my father, full of plans and schemes to get rich quick. David was a financial advisor. David was boring. David was safe.
The first time he introduced me to his mother, we were in the car when déjà vu crept over me. These fields were very familiar. David drove onto the Hawkins Estate and turned into Acer Drive and I started to laugh.
“I lived on this exact street when I was kid!” I said. “Look! That’s my Granny’s old house!”
When we walked into the front room I had to grip the back of the chair so I didn’t fall over. The room span around me. It was Granny’s front room! Granny’s dining table and chairs and sideboard gleamed, Granny’s big sunburst mirror hung on the wall, and in front of the sofa, Granny’s trio of smooth, pebble-shaped coffee tables stood artfully arranged.
“Amy Mullins?” said his mother, wrinkling her nose as though she smelt something bad.
“There used to be a Mullins family at number four. Do you remember dear?”
David shrugged.
“Not nice people. Of course old Mrs Mullins at thirty-six was a different story. Nice lady. Must have died of shame.” She stared right at me. She knew, alright.
I smiled weakly. “You have a lovely home Mrs Smith.”
“Margaret, please.”
“Beautiful furniture.”
“Thank you dear. All G-plan, you know, and this nest of tables is genuine vintage Ercol can you believe that? I picked up the whole lot for a song. I still can’t believe my luck. Very difficult to find a complete set in such good condition now. Worth a fortune. The seller had no idea he had.”
“Daddy wasn’t keen though was he?” David said.
Margaret sighed and moved towards the kitchen. “Your father was a wonderful man, but he had no taste,” she said.
A tight knot of hatred formed under my ribs. She knew – she knew – that this furniture should have been mine. She had plenty of money, but she’d cheated us, just for the pleasure of it. As for my father – I’d managed not to think about him for years, but here I was again, furious – he’d been such an idiot he’d sold off my inheritance for next to nothing.
***
As a child I’d always walked to Granny’s house after school. She would drape a plastic cloth over her beautiful table and I would sit there with my milk and biscuits, under the big mirror, and tell Granny about my day. Her little dog peeked out at the street from behind the orange and brown curtains. Granny’s house was a safe little nest, full of knick-knacks and the smell of baking.
At number four it was different. Our furniture was chipboard with a white plastic veneer that peeled off, and stains that never went away. Things disappeared: the washing machine; Mummy’s necklace; an older brother I felt sure I had, but who was never spoken about again. Other things mysteriously appeared: broken cars and engine parts on the lawn; “uncles” banging on the door at night; the police.
The time when me and my mother went to live at Granny’s, tucked up in her spare room, was the happiest time of my life. There was always plenty of food at Granny’s, my clothes were always clean, I did my homework and we baked cakes in the afternoons. But eventually we always went back, and every time things were worse: greyer, noisier, more hopeless.
When granny died, the world ended. I had thought of her as immortal, more a feature of life, like the post office, than a person. Mummy lay in her bed crying, but Daddy was happy for once. Soon the television reappeared, then more cars, more men, more empty bottles. I would sleep in the bed with Mummy.
“That’s your inheritance he’s gambling away down there,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry Mummy,” I replied. “I’ll get it back.”
***
Soon after David and I got married and got back from our honeymoon, we went for family dinner at Margaret’s, and that night I was sick. I mean, really sick. I was up for hours with it pouring out of me from both ends. David was sympathetic, although useless. The next day I cautiously mentioned I’d had some “tummy trouble,” in case anybody else had, but my brother and sister-in-law said they were fine.
The next time we went for dinner Margaret announced “Amy has a sensitive stomach,” and shot me such a smug look that I knew she’d done it on purpose. Anxiety gripped at my insides.
“Well, you wouldn’t know to look at her,” said Rory.
Victoria giggled. “It’s a blessing, Amy,” she said. “A few bouts of IBS and those pounds will just melt off!”
Was that it? She was putting laxatives in my food because she wanted me lose weight?
The third time I complained of stomach cramps after family dinner, David just went to play Call of Duty with his headphones on. Later that night, when I finally recovered enough to go to bed, I said “I think she’s putting something in my food.”
“For god’s sake Amy!” he said, “I know you’ve never liked my mother, but this really is too much. Maybe you need to see a psychologist.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d told him before I was sick of her fat-shaming me, always making comments about my weight, and he’d said I was just being sensitive. There was that time we went shopping and she kept offering me clothes three sizes too big, saying, “This looks so much more flattering,” or “No, not sleeveless, surely not.” Men don’t understand how upsetting these things are. Not to mention that time she’d slapped me with a fly swatter and hissed “you’ve eaten enough,” when I reached for the biscuit tin.
Then again, we always ate the same food, placed on the table for us to help ourselves, so how could she be poisoning me? If there was something in the food, we’d all get sick, not just me. Maybe I really was sensitive? But I couldn’t go on like this, avoiding meals, trying not to eat, making excuses, or sat on the toilet crying half the night. I had to make her stop.
For our last ever family dinner, Margaret had cooked a roast chicken.
“Let me carry those,” I said, picking up a serving dish of roast potatoes and following Victoria, who was carrying the carrots.
“Be careful! Those are my good dishes,” said Margaret.
I stood there, steam rising off the roast potatoes, looking at the dishes on Granny’s table, and my stomach churned in anticipated the awful night I was going to have. The glasses sparkled, the cutlery shone… all except mine. The knife and fork at my place were dull, as though the dishwasher wasn’t working properly. The cutlery? My god, it was on the cutlery? I plopped down the potatoes and quickly swapped my cutlery with Margaret’s. Victoria came back with a jug of gravy. Margaret bustled in.
“Come on then boys, turn that off. We’re all set.”
***
As Margaret sliced into her chicken, my palms were sweating. What if she noticed and confronted me? But how could she, when that would mean acknowledging what she was doing? She confidently speared a piece of chicken on her fork, dabbed it in the gravy, popped it into her mouth and chewed daintily.
“Did you notice, number twenty’s finally been sold,” Victoria said.
“Any idea who the buyers are?” Margaret asked. “I hope it’s not buy-to-let.”
I let the inane conversation wash over me. A thrill rushed through me. I’d never done anything bad like this before, never in my life. Except when I was a kid and I used to steal chocolate from the supermarket, but that was a long time ago. I felt good. Margaret was munching away confidently, with no idea how sick she was going to be later. I picked up my shiny, clean cutlery and cleared my plate. The food was delicious. The chicken soft and tender, the vegetables perfectly salted, the roast potatoes crunchy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Nobody could say my mother-in-law wasn’t an excellent cook. I hadn’t enjoyed a meal this much in months.
“Eating for two or something?” Victoria said.
Margaret looked at me, a flicker of alarm on her face.
“Oh, just hungry,” I said, “and it’s so delicious.” I smiled at Margaret, who smiled back, looking totally satisfied. For the first time I felt a warm, relaxed glow, sense of togetherness, of family. I even cared about Margaret. Poor woman. She’d be doubled up on the toilet soon enough.
After dinner, Rory suggested “stretching his legs,” which meant a trip to the pub on the estate and a couple of games of pool. Victoria said she’d go too, and David gave me a questioning look.
“I think I’ll stay here,” I said. “You go. Enjoy yourself.”
He looked relieved I wasn’t asking to go home straight away, and Victoria raised an eyebrow at Rory. I was sure they’d spend the evening talking about me.
When they’d left, Margaret eyed me distastefully. “I don’t need your help, you know,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable.”
“Oh, I know,” I said. “Completely capable. That really was a lovely dinner, Margaret.”
“Well, you certainly ate enough. If you have any more of that ‘tummy trouble,’ make sure to use the upstairs bathroom. The downstairs bathroom is for guests, I want to keep it nice.”
I smiled sweetly and stacked the plates.
“Be careful with those glasses. I only have seven left now, thanks to you.”
I hummed a little tune to myself as I went to the kitchen and set to work.
“Feeling alright, Margaret?”
She braced herself against the counter, one hand on her belly. The colour had drained from her face. The poison was obviously working even faster than usual.
“Just a little indigestion,” she muttered.
“Well, it can’t have been anything you ate,” I said. “And I feel so well! You know, I think you were all right when you said my digestive problems were all in my head. I’ve been seeing a psychologist.” I dropped my voice to a confiding tone. I was really enjoying myself now. “It’s doing wonders…”
“Ugh!” Margaret gave a terrible groan and lunged out of the room, one had over her mouth.
“Oh, not the downstairs bathroom, Margaret! Remember, that’s reserved for visitors!” I yelled after her.
I stood calmly outside the door and listened to the vomit splattering on the beautiful tiled floor, and the stream of shit hitting the pristine toilet bowl.
“Bit of tummy trouble? I’ll leave you to it, then,” I said loudly and cheerfully. “I’m just putting the kettle on.”
I rummaged about in the kitchen until I found, at the bottom of the bin, a packet of super-strong laxatives, the kind they give you to clean you out before an operation. I slipped it into my handbag, as evidence to show to David. Then I slurped up my tea. I polished off the last of the roast potatoes, dipping them directly into a jar of Sainsbury’s finest mayonnaise, licking it off my fingers. I put the half-empty jar, soiled with lumps of potato, back into the fridge. Give Margaret something to complain about later. After that I polished off the last portion of apple crumble and put the dishes in the sink to soak. God, it felt good.
After about twenty minutes I thought I’d better check on Margaret. I sauntered back to the bathroom and pushed open the door, which of course she hadn’t been able to lock in time. “God, it’s a mess in here,” I said. “Disgusting. No self-control.”
I pulled my t-shirt up over my mouth and nose. The smell made me feel faint.
Margaret was openly sobbing, gasping for breath. Vomit ran down her chin. “Oh god,” she said. “What have you done? The doctor! Call the doctor.”
“Well, you’ve already had a taste of your own medicine, Margaret, what more do you want?” I said.
“Why did David have to marry you?” she murmured. She slumped to one side, and her head smacked against the wall with a nasty thump. He mouth went slack, and one eye twitched. She mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Was she having a stroke? God, I hadn’t expected it to be this bad! Maybe I should actually call an ambulance? Her breath came in shallow gasps. I leaned closer to hear. “Fat Irish trash… ruined this neighbourhood… too good for you,” she might have said, but it was hard to tell, her voice was so slurred.
This stuck-up thief, who’d basically stolen all of Granny’s furniture, had the nerve to say my family was trashy?
“You’re the one lounging about in a puddle of poop, Margaret,” I said. “Who’s trashy now?”
Margaret’s eyes rolled back in her head. She took one last gasp and then her breath stopped. I put a hand against the side of her neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing.
I checked my phone. David had messaged saying they’d be back in an hour. I closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Obviously Margaret didn’t have anything as trashy as Cadbury’s chocolate, but I found a packet of posh ginger cookies, so I ate them to steady my nerves. I waited twenty minutes, to make sure she was good and dead, before I called an ambulance and phoned David. Then I set to work.
I flushed the toilet several times before I heaved Margaret up and gave her skinny, wrinkly arse and thighs a good clean with wet-wipes. I flushed those, pulled her clothes back on, and dragged her into the hall. Light as a feather.
“Lucky I’m so strong and fat, eh Margaret?” I said.
I gave the toilet a good scrub, cleaned the sink, and wiped up the floor with paper towels and plenty of bleach. Then I rubbed everything down with more paper towels to make sure it was dry. Wet floors would have been suspicious. Margaret kept things so neat and nice, it was easy to find all the cleaning products. I threw everything into the kitchen trash, changed the bag, then hesitated. If anybody saw me hauling a trash bag outside while an ambulance arrived, that would look pretty strange. I dumped the back outside the back door instead, to deal with later. I gathered Margaret up in one arm and dragged her back into the downstairs loo, and washed her mouth out. I poked my fingers all around her teeth and under her tongue and jabbed them down her throat to clean out every last bit of vomit. Time was running short, so I opened the windows and sprayed plenty of air freshener around. I fetched her makeup bag from her handbag, hanging in the hall. I powdered her chin and nose and dabbed a bit of lipstick on. Good as new.
“Amy! Mummy!” David yelled from outside. God, back already! Their feet crunched on the gravel drive. I laid Margaret down on the bathroom floor, wiped down the sink again, stuffed the paper towels into the pocket of my cardigan, flung her makeup bag into her handbag, and pulled open the door.
“David!” I flung myself against him, “thank god you’re here! One minute she was fine, then I heard her fall, the ambulance says they’ll be here any moment, I got her into the recovery position…” I babbled on. Nobody pays much attention to a fat, dumb, talkative wife.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur.
***
I was worried that Victoria might have taken Granny’s furniture and sold it, or even set fire to it, just to spite me, but Rory shrugged.
“Let her have this old stuff if it means so much to her. I don’t want second-hand, anyway” he said. “Never understood what your mother saw in it.”
I had the movers in there packing everything up the very same day, before they could change their minds. David was too busy crying over “Poor Mummy,” and her awful stroke. That night I slept soundly for the first time in ages. I was so relieved that Margaret was gone. When I went downstairs in the morning the sunburst mirror was on the floor. It wasn’t damaged, and neither was the wall. That was puzzling, because the movers had hung the mirror, and they’d made a good job of it. David helped me lift it back onto the hooks, and then I thought nothing of it.
But the next morning, it was on the floor again.
On the third morning the sideboard doors and drawers were open, and the good bottle of wine, the one I was saving for our anniversary, was smashed on the floor.
“What happened?” David asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t hear anything during the night. Did you close the windows? Maybe it was a cat?”
“A cat? How could a cat open the doors? Unless you left them open?”
A tight knot of anxiety formed under my ribs. “You didn’t leave the windows open then?”
“Of course I didn’t!”
“Well, I didn’t leave the cupboard doors open, either!”
Strange things kept happening in our front room, and we kept blaming each other. Every morning I felt tense and anxious as I padded downstairs in my slippers to see what had happened this time. I lay awake, fretting about what it would be next. I was exhausted, emotional and snappish.
The morning after Margaret’s funeral I pushed open the door to the front room with a sense of trepidation and let out a sudden scream at what I saw.
“Alright?” called David.
“Just stubbed my toe,” I called back, in a strange, high voice.
The word “Murderer,” was gouged into my beautiful table. I held on to the door frame and closed my eyes. When I opened them the word was still there. David must never, ever, see this. I hurried to the sideboard, pulled out a table cloth and flung it quickly over the table. I pulled out a chair but as I lowered myself down it skittered away from me and across the room. I landed heavily on the floor on my bum. I gasped in pain.
“I’m sick of this!” I hissed. “I know it’s you. Why can’t you leave us alone you interfering old bitch!”
I glanced into granny’s lovely sunburst mirror, on the floor again. The face it reflected was not my own.
“Oh no dear, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” said Margaret. She patted her hair. “You see, this furniture belongs to me. I have repossessed it. If you want to get rid of me, you’ll have to sell it on. And I know how fond you are of the mid-century modern style.”
My shoulders trembled. My eyes filled with tears.
David came in behind me. “I heard a noise,” he said. “Are you alright? Did you fall?” he put his arms around me, helped me up, and gave me a cuddle as I sobbed into his chest.
“I know things have been difficult lately, but thanks for making an effort. I do notice all the things you do for me. You’ve started folding all my laundry and putting my things away so nicely, just like Poor Mummy used to. And it’s so good of you to take Mummy’s things. It’s going to mean so much when we have children, to have a legacy to give them.”
I looked over David’s shoulder into the mirror, where Margaret smirked back at me.
Kate M Tyte is an English teacher in Portugal. Her essays have appeared in Slightly Foxed, STORGY and The Short Story and her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Teleport; STORGY; MONO; Riggwelter; Reflex Press; Idle Ink; The Fiction Pool; Press Pause Press; Ghastly Gastronomy; Living, Loving, Longing, Lisbon; Strange Spring: Stories We Wrote in Self-Isolation; The Chamber; Daikaijuzine; Penumbric Speculative Fiction; Schlock Webzine; Black Sheep; and on The Other Stories and Creepy Pod podcasts.
Idle Ink 