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. . .
    Say the name!
    But his tongue was paralysed, itself a huge lump of swollen dead meat filling his mouth. Through a watery haze, he spied the drinks cabinet on the far side of the room and the decanter of brandy there.
    You’ll be needing this, Kane had said.
    Of course. How could he have forgotten the importance of the brandy? Somehow the alcohol dulled the poisonous effects for the time it took to swallow such a bitter pill.
    He started to crawl on hands and knees across the living room floor, but his legs felt like solid lead, his heart racing, ready to burst. He collapsed on his face in the middle of the floor. As the darkness closed in he heard a shrill mocking laugh coming from somewhere, but in his hysteria he couldn’t decide if it was the storm-swept trees scraping against the window, or Maria, or some voice inside his head.
    Oh, such wicked laughter . . .

Killing Gloria
     
    The first time I tried to kill Gloria was on our first wedding anniversary. I took her to Gino’s for dinner, her favourite place. While I ate the four-course meal, she watched me with her usual doe-eyed look of adoration. Did I feel guilty, knowing what I had in mind that night? Not a bit. I’d had enough. Enough of her and her unconditional love. She had to go.
    So I drove her down to the canal, and we walked arm in arm along the towpath for a while, taking in the cool night air. The rain was falling steadily, soaking us both to the skin. I’m surprised she never twigged then. I mean, who goes walking at night in the pouring rain? But I was such a gentleman, she never suspected a thing.
    When I was sure we weren’t going to be disturbed, I turned to her. She was expecting a kiss, and dutifully pursed her lips. But I couldn’t reciprocate. It would only have been a Judas kiss.
    “I’m sorry, Gloria,” I said.
    Before she could form a response, I shoved her backwards with all my strength. She hit the oily black waters with a sploosh and a spray of foam. She was so heavy she sank beneath the surface like an anvil. I stood there for five minutes, watching the dark waters for signs of life. During that time the ripples she’d made faded away, the driving rain slowed to a light drizzle, and my heartbeat eventually settled to its usual steady rhythm. With no sign of her coming back up, I walked calmly back to the car and drove home. When I hit my pillow, I was asleep in an instant. I hadn’t slept that soundly in twelve months . . .
    ***
    . . . until six o’clock the next morning.
    The first thing I knew was the steady creak of the bedroom door as it swung open. My heart burned with fear, but I didn’t let it show. I remained still, with my back to the door, listening as bare feet padded carefully over to the side of the bed--her side--and then stopped. I heard the drip-drip-drip on the polished pine floor and I knew instantly it was her. A water-heavy garment was removed noisily and dropped on the floor with a loud shlupp sound.
    “David?”
    I said nothing.
    “I’m back.”
    I took my time before answering, choosing my words carefully. “Are you okay?” I said.
    “Yes. I’m fine.” The bed creaked as she sat down. “Just a little upset at what you did.”
    I remained silent, studying the outline of her shadow thrown across the far wall by the landing light.
    “Are you angry with me?” she said. “Is there something I’ve done wrong?”
    “No, honey,” I said in that mechanical tone I’d come to use a lot. “I’m not angry. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.”
    “I still love you,” she said.
    Her words were like razors in my gut. Not from shame, you understand, or even guilt at what I did to her. What really burned me is that, even after all, she still bore me no malice. A real woman would have plunged a knife into my heart. I might have even respected her if she’d done that. Better a knife in the heart than this intolerable forgiveness.
    “You still love me, don’t you?” she asked.
    “Of